2020
#7
Towers like broken fingers
reach into a slate grey sky.
A memory of packed cities
of crowds that shuffled by.

I am assuming you are referring to how New York has suffered two disasters in one generation. It makes sense only after reading further, but I like it.

The promise of cold silence
of store fronts now laid bare.
2020 the year of the virus
of emptied streets everywhere.

The last two lines are plenty to set up the focus. There is no need to mention the "novel covid strain" in the last line. I think here, you could play around with what you hear instead of the bustle of city life... a single dog barking or the hiss of sewers, etc. I.e. the sounds that were masked before by life.

You could also play around with taste, such as home cooking or eating canned goods. Also, the hospital food eaten by those who are ill.

I think mentioning the media here is important for the poem. I think you are trying to say that the media dulls your senses and your intuition. It force feeds you (more on taste).

Tv screens flicker blue
to the box lose your brain.
The media hypes the fear
of the novel Covid strain.

Best of luck!
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Messages In This Thread
2020 - by Greywolf - 05-06-2020, 11:55 PM
RE: 2020 - by billy - 05-10-2020, 05:56 PM
RE: 2020 - by Greywolf - 05-10-2020, 08:01 PM
RE: 2020 - by LSClanton - 05-10-2020, 09:17 PM
RE: 2020 - by ComposerMike - 05-12-2020, 03:33 PM
RE: 2020 - by Greywolf - 05-13-2020, 03:27 PM
RE: 2020 - by Gerryswo - 08-12-2021, 01:12 PM
RE: 2020 - by ISawASpaceship - 09-21-2021, 10:03 AM



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