Quarantine. A poem by Peter Sean O’Neill

And so, you sit in your armchair,
Every poor man’s throne, and look around you
Like some mellow Lear with death
And pandemic, reportedly, all around you.

Cool heads prevail, but don’t speak of breathing!
Just inhale, slowly, and look around you.
Reflect upon the kind of creature that you have become,
See what trophies adorn your shelves and walls.

No boar heads nor deer here, no dead animals
Of any kind, just a solitary wall of books,
Containing the lives of the great dead.

It stands like a monument to human history.
When you look you see only a tide of crimson,
With a skeleton entombed in every volume.



1 Comment

  1. Love this.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *