The paradox of the human condition:
No one wants to die.
No one wants to live forever.
Poetry lies somewhere beyond those entities.
Poems are always about people,
even if it's not said out loud.
Therefore, writing doesn't get easier in isolation,
even though time is plenty.
At first glance, the world hasn't changed:
Sensations like touch, smell, sight and sound
can still be felt.
I still feel the road
with every step,
as my feet ascend and descend on it.
I still feel my sunburned skin,
and the comforting ease of the headwind
embracing sore tissue,
while smelling the gasoline-scent of stuttering engines,
as the streetlights change their colors.
Isolation is a premonition of a world
in the absence of humans,
where the forests are filled with trees
that no one is around to hear falling.
And I wonder if there is still poetry in such a world,
not written but unwritten,
floating in the summer sky,
like if there's some divine space where all ideas
will continue to dwell,
even when the electricity in the flesh has perished.