This is a poem in iambic pentameter about the coronavirus. I wrote it on April 1st, 2020.
A hundred thousand people may succumb,
But tears may freeze in eyes and minds too numb.
It’s like a train crash in slow motion frames,
But we’re too shocked to feel emotion’s flames.
There is a disconnect when people grin
At online jokes—what’s funny here again?
“The wise don’t mourn the living or the dead,”
But Jeremiah’s tears will flood my head.
There is no model or good precedent
To lead the “wise” or guide the president.
For who can claim to know the higher plan?
The self-deceived and more presumptuous can.
On whom should we place all the guilt and blame?
Is it a crime, or is it all a game?
Is this the end, or will some life go on?
Will flames consume, or will we see a dawn?
A tiny virus can defeat its hosts,
And turn us into good or evil ghosts?
Or does a virus have a selfish goal?
Does replication make it feel more whole?
Like us, it feels the ever-present need
To reproduce itself just like a weed?
If all our children cover up the earth,
Does this give life some meaning, sense, or worth?
Or is the growth of character and soul
Our real objective, aim of life, and goal?
Should we assist our friends and love our foes,
If we can’t lose whatever love bestows?
If all our deeds attend us when we die,
Then death can’t make our faith into a lie.
These trials might just be a final test,
And after sorrow, we will get to rest.
But those who don’t obtain the highest mark,
Come back again to overcome the dark.
The darkness is released before the light,
All trials cease, all dreams end with the night.
We’ll live as one, once we’ve attained the grade;
A fearful virus—learning’s greatest aid?