Who is this microscopic dealer of death?
This slayer of dreams with just one breath.
Is it a witches' curse, cold and calculated,
my Shakespearean version of Macbeth?
Stage right intensive alone ventilated,
curtain falls on last breath while isolated.
Masked survivors cannot hide the pain.
So many lost, never once contemplated.
We're all unwilling actors with no refrain.
Apart in separation are us who remain.
At risk players who love from a distance
six paces apart the measure to sustain.
Subplot thickens, missed hugs in every instance.
Oh the lingering effects of such a penance.
Apart in touch but never in heart,
God's love prevails in every hindrance.
No viral Macbeth can keep us apart,
from the saving grace of God's own heart.
Nor disease, death or desolation
can forsake our hope for a brand new start.
So plan each day in isolation
as another chance for reconciliation.
Fear not to what I've been awaken
God is the true author of life…and salvation