AugPoWriMo 12

Quiet hours begin when bugs are loud
There’s no quiet even when it is found
Just a sense of dread that things aren’t so good
As they were when they were misunderstood
I’m talking in my sleep dreams are so real
They feel what anybody wants to feel
Euphoric excited or even numb
Things that are gone haven’t even begun
One hundred fifty days in quarantine
Don’t even know what any of it means
I’m hiding my face I’m wearing my mask
The last shall be first the first shall be last
We climbed the mountain we’re on the way down
It’s quiet hours now there’s no one around