Doomscrolling

 

tucked away in a spidered

corner, a fog-eyed monk

with requisite feathery quill 

scribbles where can we go 

    from here? 

      

o ye

of little imagination

behold all the days 

unraveling, time unrolling

    its carpet for little seeds

        germination defies

            your eschatology

but it’s damn near

impossible not to fixate

    upon the moths

        unfluttered in the wax

to contemplate

    the ghost smoke 

        and final ash

is it possible to not gaze 

    into the bone-abyss

        of a shortsighted calendar 

where the end 

is always nigh

a quick glance outside

would reveal a squirrel 

    stuffing acorns into 

        the empty socket

            of the timeless oak

can you even dare

to peel your eyes 

    from the scroll 

and see

    all your fears 

        are paper

step outside and 

ache accordingly

_____________________

Weekly Scribblings #48: “Words of an Unprecedented Year”