On and On

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s a fact. I wouldn’t wish this bliss on anyone.</p><p id="9fa9" type="7">Ten days off work?</p><p id="d763">No, that ain’t fun. Masked and tasked with looking glum. I’m scared to see who I’ve become.</p><p id="09cf">But sucky as this sick-fest is… I’ll be just fine after Covid.</p><p id="0757">Not so I know for everyone.</p><p id="f5ff">Two years I fear we’ve just begun.</p><p id="7991">Delta… …Nineteen… Omicron…</p><p id="f7a0">The list of variants goes on …and on… …and on… No end in sight. No bell to pause this dreaded fight.</p><p id="437d">And though eventually, I’ll leave the confines of my quarantine. I’ll leave with heavy bags of sorrow…</p><p id="bf7b"><i>Some may never greet tomorrow.</i></p><p id="4fa9"><i>© 2022 Stephania Thompson</i></p><p id="7f9c"><i>Author’s Note… This poem is just a futile play, a way of coping with the awful viru

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s that is Covid, and is in no way meant to minimize anyone’s experience. My heart goes out to the millions who have suffered and lost, to the countless frontline healthcare professionals who have sacrificed, and to the unsung heroes providing care quietly in households across this world.</i></p><div id="9644" class="link-block"> <a href="https://steph-thmpsn.medium.com/about-me-47faa8528c4c"> <div> <div> <h2>About Me</h2> <div><h3>And Other Irrelevant Things…</h3></div> <div><p>steph-thmpsn.medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*pQI32c4fDLjB8NOrHDzFNw.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div></article></body>

A poetic ode to Covid

What the heck? I’ve got the Covid.

Loaded up with pills and filled prescriptions. No physician wants to see me, see. I’m low on the priority

List.

No preexisting woes to show. No chronic ailments harsh my flow. Not breathing hard, Not seeing stars, No fever, leave her — it ain’t SARS.

It’s something, though, I’ll tell you that. I feel like crap, and that’s a fact. I wouldn’t wish this bliss on anyone.

Ten days off work?

No, that ain’t fun. Masked and tasked with looking glum. I’m scared to see who I’ve become.

But sucky as this sick-fest is… I’ll be just fine after Covid.

Not so I know for everyone.

Two years I fear we’ve just begun.

Delta… …Nineteen… Omicron…

The list of variants goes on …and on… …and on… No end in sight. No bell to pause this dreaded fight.

And though eventually, I’ll leave the confines of my quarantine. I’ll leave with heavy bags of sorrow…

Some may never greet tomorrow.

Author’s Note… This poem is just a futile play, a way of coping with the awful virus that is Covid, and is in no way meant to minimize anyone’s experience. My heart goes out to the millions who have suffered and lost, to the countless frontline healthcare professionals who have sacrificed, and to the unsung heroes providing care quietly in households across this world.