The usual, the ordinaire, the routine, the habits and the regularities.
The familiar comfort of knowing how and living homely.
A solace where against odds, nothing could possibly go wrong.
Normal. Standard. Accustomed to the scene. Inside of the box.
Fifteenth of last year’s March, the lively Pearl of the Orient turned lifeless,
Everything was bizarre and everyone was questioning in despair,
Panic buys, isolations, depression, doubts, famine, and deaths.
Others in stability, several are in predicament, and a lot losing their last breaths.
Conquering daily battles armed with facemasks and face-shields,
Spritz of disinfectants, frequent handwash and placed plastic dividers.
What had become of the land of smiles but mere masks, afraid of the breeze.
Wishing for a recurrence of the past, but now settling with the memories.
Time was regarded as gold but one can only do so much in a box.
Hours spent searching for distractions, entertainment, and temporary relief.
Minutes in the hands of the air-filled worries and rising rates of infection.
Seconds wasted waiting, expecting for the proper response of the top leaders.
Left in the blurred tomorrow, people strived and the citizens revamped.
Buried by burdens, restricted by reasons, nightfall and fallen front-liners
As ghastly as it would seem, this was now the normal, the usual, the ordinaire.
Demises from afar deemed as numbers and those closer regarded as ashes.
Leaving the mess they were last year in the hopes to shift to this new normal.
Now, no one judges your abnormal nocturnal setting and late night snacks.
No one would doubt your reoccurring breakdowns, and flickering disconnection,
Cause we were pressed to cope amidst the mayhem and adapt to this alteration.
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