Amnesiacs, all: forgetting about
A plague that left no part of this world whole
As if the thing itself we really doubt
There are no skeptics left in the grave’s hole
Millions fell, but our tears are exhausted
By funereal boredom, we’re not shamed
A global pyre, by inattention frosted
The vanished are too many to be named
Too small to mourn itself is this, our world
It is dwarfed by attention deficits
Into amnesia’s drain, the plague dead swirled
No time have we for keening or strange fits
How quickly we forget those we have lost
We too will soon be into that hole tossed
About the Creator
D. J. Reddall
I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
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