Awaiting Time


Time’s sunlit hours age naked loneliness,
even as delusional repose
stares out from beneath sunglasses
trying to shield against reality’s radiation,

The kind immune to technical measure,

The sort drifting into evening’s charade
where hiding beneath the sheets
never escapes tomorrow’s sunrise,
duration’s sweep of hour hands
counting down our withering existence.

Such might be Conid 19’s  mission.