Rodak's Writings: Simile - another poem

SIMILE

I am pinned like a bug
by existence:
forgotten display
in a dark, locked room.
A trace of light seeps
around the edges
of black shades by day.
I sometimes hear footsteps,
distant voices down the hall.
But these things do not affect me.
Once a mobile being,
my stiffened wings are now
crisp as the flaking pages
of an ancient tome.
I am but a metaphor.

Rodak's Writings: An Ode to the Pandemic

What This Fresh Hell Is

                          All things must happen

                          left to right,

as your sight

now guides your mind,  

finally to fall off

the dexterous edge.

Thus the scorching sun

is Satan’s wand.

The prevailing breeze

is the Word of God.

The Ground of Being

smiles down on the virus:

Left to right

the ‘Rona rules.