The times are haunted
By a faceless threat;
As many are fret,
The houses are locked.
They say it's kinda flu,
There's hardly any clue;
Though it's a killer kick
That's left many sick.
The rich are in safety
With a full on pantry;
The poor are hungry
And fed only pity.
The doctors are killed
By apathy's felony;
Well, that's the irony...
Gratitude isn't skilled!
The disease is an excuse
That the religious use,
The gods indeed cried
As the other is lynched.
As distance is sought,
Touch is called bad;
This makes one mad
As, hugs...we forgot!
©nanasahib
N