MIST
A sequence of fog-tones, ordered in their touch,
falling in the instant’s early chill,
and in that instant, growing heavy,
so swiftly,
so irrevocably, toward the dew point
where droplets plead for freedom.
***
A tangle in the white void, writhing with frost,
as senses brim with the weight of hopelessness,
as senses brim with silence,
born of me,
shaken in me by the voices of many rages,
that fade to nothing but a sigh.
***
A weave of futile wishes tortured by fear
shifts, weakens, ripples in the dawn’s scarlet,
shifts, weakens, vanishes
in my vision—
in my awakening to a naked identity,
whose longings resound in the scream of lives unspent.
Author: Veron
