“Glitter”

The contagion comes,
silent, soft, and slow
a trail of ghostly glitter,
over towns below.

Lingers on our hands,
sticks to our doors,
leaving us all breathless
no hope of any cure.

Floating like dandelion seeds,
this stalking form of life
brings us to our knees—
a microscopic hunting knife.

As with other baffling fears
we wash the flecks away,
shiny but invisible,
and await another day.

Click below to read more poetry