Covid-19

         written in social isolation

Abound, unseen reminders of fragility
long lying latent in the caverns we
enclose as crypts, and issue forth
from dark of long neglect to jog our short-
term memories.
                        Mountains wrapped in mist,
untimely death of healthy relatives,
a textbook on the Second World War,
and still persisting in delusions (more
as necessary form of fending off despair
than anything) we don the golden chairs
of foil royalty to play as puppet kings,
feign ignoring the potential of a hand
that animates.
                       So it makes perfect sense
if social isolation is the necessary remedy
of ego sickness, each long-ambitious king
enforced to rule his mailbox kingdom, alone  
and cowering, as utterly unable to control

as flimsy puppets tossed into a plastic box.

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