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Walking in the fog.

How sleepy is the world amongst the mist,
Protected by it's cloak from all reality,
Reminding me of lovers I have kissed,
And live in dreams, and are no longer part of me.

Distant as all those objects that the mist obscures,
Her hair, her voice, a cloud of reason past,
The mists of time have hidden her allures,
And freed this aching soul from harm at last.

Cloaked by the fog that hides the cruel truth,
Of harshest outlines that define my day,
I feel a touch of sanity and youth,
And wish the fog would never go away.

Revealing what I lost, and what I gained,
Revealing the reality of lonely thought,
The fog, a comfortable place, for eyes so stained,
From tears I cried, more than a person aught.

I love the mists, those foggy moment walks
That take me from myself, to other places,
Away from cold and bitter heartfelt talks,
And the reality of my disgraces.

Learn more about this author, Dave Franklin.
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