Now let pandemic poets try this week
To vow this Monday, as the tension starts
While offices may yet lay closed and meek,
The algorithms churn still crushing hearts,
Let’s speak with voices pure as morning mist
Not barbs precise to cut all comers down
But flowers bred to open like mouths kissed
And leave the billion trolls to play the clown.
So I will here in morning's freshness set
Intention to not rip scabs freshly healed.
On Tuesday Wednesday Thursday don’t forget
The wisdom Sunday’s silence just revealed.
But can such tender searching souls expect
To use tools built for money to connect?