An AI Generated Image
Hypochondriacal isolation
Thanks to a rampant, mysterious plague
Gradually yields to relaxation
As good signs appear, though many are vague
No global festival, marking the end
Has taken place, but our mood has improved
As a masked stranger becomes an old friend
Secretly, you might by regret be moved
The other humans often disappoint:
Obtuse, rude, obnoxious, greedy or vain
Their silly antics can one’s wits disjoint
And their vice and folly can cause one pain
Individually, they are as gods
But in groups, tribes or nations, many are clods
About the Creator
D. J. Reddall
I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
Comments (3)
Clods! Such a great word. Such a mocking way to end this too. Funny!
Lol, definitely clods! Loved your poem!
That couplet! How true.