The Roaring 2020

The roaring 2020 seems to be a peeping visitor That the world denied love yonder the door Beetles singing glory be to him who reigns Trees whistle with their broken lips hosanna Flies hold conference sessions on bull’s broken leg And winds swish their clothes in funeral moods Clouds roll on their back praying alleluia Broken roofs hoot good bye to smoking visitors Fire licks bottoms of unwelcome guests Yet in the middle of things humans are quiet Having escaped to once abandoned caves Not of flesh but of the earth engraved for custody Well prepared for cocktail parties of shadows That never was on the surface of the earth anywhere But it happens in the middle world of the 2020 Where faces are painted with sandy winds of hope Although the wind and the hope cannot share beds Even in the coldest of nighty winters of life