Jun 30, 2021
1 min read
Winter 2020
No one could see 20/20
It is surely the winter of my discontent,
Made irradiated summer by my curt rhymes.
All the ashes that were scattered upon my bent
grave heart are sadly imitated for all mimes.
Charlie Chaplin alleviates the suffering
but my pain lingers on in midst of anarchy.
I am again left wandering and wondering
whether the tide will ebb before the anomy
that is threatening to engulf me, us, becomes
irremediably the…
