Last Year

By Chris Davison

Last year, I was me.
I had meaning.
Purpose.
A plan. Sort of.
Now withered to dust.
Fragments ripped by an unseeing foe.
Scattered by the ill-wind.
Lockdown.
My being cast with it.
Waves of hope and fear, sunlight and rain, silver and grey.
No idea when the darkness came.

Last year, I was me.
But not this year.
And amid the turmoil, I fear the next.

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