Lines Form in the Underworld.

It’s a sinking kind of sadness,

Times been cut short,

Some stand by this madness,

Malpractice is now its own sport.

We could have been saved,

They weren’t concerned,

We climbed the second wave,

One hundred and thirty thousand graves.

By the third our hope is in sight,

Trials have been successful,

The vaccine will end our plight,

The year of lockdowns has been stressful.

Variants engulf the world,

A fourth wave stands above us,

Lines form in the underworld,

We’re told hindsight while we fuss.


This week I was inspired by the news, here in the UK a lot of accusations have been made, and they have made me perpetually sad.

It could all be nonsense, or made up of a million lies, but even just the thought of it haunts me.

As always stay safe, thank you so much for taking the time to read my new poem, and let’s hope we get out of this soon.

Almost double vaccinated,

Emma.

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