Clouded
A fog of smoke has encroached my surroundings
I'm astounded
At the stillness in a life that once was boundless
I pass time
But I don't really spend it
Like I'm saving to a bank that's set aflame and upended
I used to write
only after I felt a thousand things a day
not 999 would have brought the pen alerted to the page
But in times
unprecedented there's not as much to say
When the screaming in my ears has no signs it might abate
It’s a phony thing, thinking that if food is on the plate
you are nourished
you are growing
you are sate