July 4, 2020

Blotting out the light and sun
a shroud descends upon the land
 a covering of night and fog obscuring
unseen death, waiting to lend a helping hand.

Hearing the sound of labored breathing
from somewhere in the night and fog;
on the River Styx the sound of oars
departing for those distant shores.

Mixed in the sounds of
“I can’t breathe!” and gunshots;
Might you spare another coin
to pay a busy ferryman?

Now chanting voices and marching feet
crashing sounds of  idols fallen
clinking glasses and liquor flows
for young immortals in their great conceit.

while with fireworks and speeches
we are told to have no fears
no mention of the scythe and Reaper
the dead, the dying, the hunger, the tears

Speaking only of the idols,
deaf to snickers; irrelevance,
a minion of the scythe and Reaper
exposing our great impotence.

We have reached that point
now fearfully, underneath a blackened sky
where two roads diverge in a yellow wood
and we must choose  one to travel by.

“Choose wisely”