It was a mismatch of days, unfitting of the conundrum that latched on
The dragging of the ticking clock seemed slow to some, nearing meteoric speeds to few
They laid on their bed, staring in a small screen, a mirror of worlds that overlap
Observing the tumults, seeing the words come alive, seared in their eyes perhaps
Constantly, the earth turns
Inevitably, the world churns
It was a mismatch of days
Even outside the bedroom walls
The conundrums have heartbeats
And they strive to bring ruin to us all
//k.u.
YOU ARE READING
The Quarantine Book
Poetry"--the stillness of isolation, the blazing aloneness, the rich moments with loved ones, and the sole solitude of the person. The rumination of a bored writer, a reflection of the months, a reaction to the silence and loudness of life. It's a methodi...
