Vices

Unknown victims abound
Writhing, crying on the ground
Trying to arise and breathe
Sobbing without a sound
A prison they have found
Alone they fight for relief
Invisible walls they pound
Many before have drowned
Struggling up from beneath

Stoic Poetry

Blind Spot

We never saw the signs
Or didn’t want to
They were all around
Or that they were true

It started slowly at first
Creeping up close
As we continued along
As problems arose

Now it is much too late
To find the cure
Or get back on top
Other than to endure

Stoic Poetry