Covid came for us.
Hidden in the exhalations of the Trojan Horse who worked the eight,
Once released upon us she moved like a wraith.
Invisible to the senses we didn’t know she was hunting,
Until the dead started to walk,
Broken bodies twisted in knots,
Ghastly figures moving slowly, stiffen strides.
Those were the signs Rona was on them,
That is what we called her – the Rona.
Rona was mean and gratuitously so,
She attacked our senses, vised our longings to smell and toyed with our taste,
As if the sudden chills, and flashing heat didn’t get her point across.
She was mean, merciless – a sadist,
Rona brought strong men to their knees, hunched them over,
With debilitating pounding on the head.
But they were the lucky ones – not so for the few,
They were the ones to fall – and never to stand again.
You see what Rona did to them was even more insidious,
She reached into them – through them – to grasp the heart,
Which she never released.
Three of them, only doors from me, Rona killed in one week.
I still have nightmares, others needed counseling,
After hearing one’s head hit the floor.
His skull impacted the cement with a radiate “smack”,
That echoed through my ajarred cell door.
See all poetry for Terrance Taylor #377991