A Dissonant Pandemic

In the city’s throat, sirens braid with headlines,
a discordant choir of flashing reds and restless blue light,
phones bloom like anxious flowers in every palm,
their screens flickering with fractured truths, half-lit,
like mirrors cracked by voices shouting over one another.

we scroll as though stirring stormwater,
unable to separate the drowned leaf from the reflection,
every ripple another argument widening without shore

.

Glass towers hum with sleepless electricity,
algorithms pacing like caged tigers behind clean code,
feeding us echoes dressed as revelations,
markets quiver like tightropes in crosswind,
while distant fields thirst beneath a sky that forgets how to begin again.

Policy papers stack like unsettled dust,
and each decision hesitates at the brink of consequence,
a balancing act where even silence feels like collapse.

Across continents, borders pulse like bruises,
crowds surge and scatter like startled starlings
finding no single direction to trust.

Languages collide in midair, translating grief imperfectly,
while oceans carry plastic constellations that glint like false heavens.
We build our scaffolds of certainty in a trembling gale,
hammering belief into beams that won’t quite meet,
each structure leaning just enough to fear the next strong wind

.

Yet..

Somewhere the tide keeps its patient conversation,
water folding into sand without argument,
kelp writing slow cursive in the shallows,
tiny creatures stitching their paths in unassuming rhythm.

A sandpiper tilts and runs, precise as breath,
leaving hieroglyphs that neither quarrel nor demand—
and in that quiet exchange, grain by grain,
a part of the world remembers how to agree…

But only a part.