A Plague Has Passed Our Door
(In the style of Emily Dickinson)
A plague has passed our door today,
Invisible — its form —
It floats upon the air, unseen,
As silent as a storm.
It whispers through the crowded street,
It steals through halls of light —
And those who breathe its shadowed wind
May vanish in the night.
No knock, no sound, no hurried step,
Its entrance goes unknown —
But all the while, the world recoils,
And waits in fear, alone.
The days grow still, the hours stretch,
The windows closed, the eyes —
But hope, though fragile as the breath,
Still lights the darkened skies.
For even in this solitude,
We feel the other's hand —
Though miles divide, our hearts unite,
Across the weary land.
The plague may pass, the night may fall,
But morning yet will rise —
And we, reborn from silence — see
The world with clearer eyes.
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