It began with wings

It began with wings,

leathery skin of a night dweller.

Hiding in plain sight under the veil of darkness.

It could not live nor die, it only was.

Coated in toxicity and bathed in the very blood that worshiped it.

A virus. Not the flu, or pox, or even a cold. It was a new creation.

A new sculpture yet to be observed.

A king in its class, perhaps that’s why they gave it a crown.

Surfing the breeze from host to host.

Ghost to ghost.

Taking root in the branches of the lungs.

New fruit to be picked. Faster than they could stop it.

Gone before they caught it. Bless the souls who stayed and fought it.

The virus. A cough became a cry, tears rolling down our eyes.

Lungs filling up inside. Help them.

Their souls looming in the dark, fires slowly burning out until ash and what will be left?

Walls crashing down to reveal the secrets.

Corners cut and white lies slipping off tongues like venom.

Spreading the pain faster than hate seeping into the very fabric of society.

Pitting brother against brother, sister against sister while fires roared in the distance.

This is not the end. Only the beginning.

And when the tears stop falling and the soil has been scorched,

don’t look to the skies.

Because remember,

it began with wings.



This poem is about: 
Our world


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