Can you hear hope dying? As madness wins, the wind turns cold. It brings ice and snow even as the sun is shining. You feel it crawling in your soul, running in the blood in your veins, as your adrenalin rises. You can’t see clearly in front of you all is fog. It’s the machine turning, the clock you keep winding, and they ask you to relax, turn on the television sit back. Wait for your demise to settle in, accept your fate. And as you type, you fight. You create screaming to be heard as millions do the same. And how do you compete in this kind of game?
Angela K. Crandall ©3/5/2020