Oh! What a plethora of disarrays

lockdown has it woven in many ways

should I be grateful

for the fortune of unison,

for the roof above, the food on the plate and my clipped wings haven't caused any collision.

Or should I contempt the vanished silence,

the parted tranquility drawn by the day

for me, just my way?

When there was this regime

slotted for my desires draped in scribblings.

Call me selfish! name me insensitive!

as I must endure the endearing gathering,

for the clock isn't ticking

to drift us apart anymore but I don't.

The sand isn't still in an hour glass.

It won't spare the unworn new uniform,

the gleeful outstation plans or

a whole year striding away

into preterit.

The lettered would say- "so petty of you!

life isn't on the brink of collapsing!

Plans can be made, things can be done

once the malign sprawling devil is won."

I would embrace the hope that cures are on the carpet and steps are taken,

that a bright day follows this dawn

But how shall I retrieve the sand

while it's gone?