In silence. Cleverly
Is abroad, intent on killing
All the world’s eight billion souls.
You sense a tickle in your throat.
Biology, malice intent,
It wafts its way and randomly
Prescribes our liquid punishment.
Cough and phlegm,
Death pro tem
Months pass and Do we? May we? see
A blessed end to breathlessness?
Not so, we are misled again;
The ball has spawned a spikier son.
Suspect the sneaking dark unknown
Aware of its intelligence,
Its lack of motive, Jahweh-like.
It comes. Lo!
And you go.
Were we so very bad? Every
One of us? To face this cull?
This spider’s web of plastic tubes,
This end without a sweet goodbye?