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.
