Half the people in this town
Care for the other half
Who can’t, and I remember a time
When those in need were treated to
Every ball kicked,
And fallen wicket….
Every fake bullet casing
Spat out in the back lane.
But a plague is purged in isolation once identified and seized,
And exposure to it controlled until its fuel is consumed and
It relinquishes the cloak of cold sweat that connected us to
Each other for the briefest of moments,
And this light picks
Up the pits
Of our skin,
And the knowledge that at the end of everything
Only the ruthless will survive.
I barely care enough
To stay in the first place,
So leaving won’t faze me.