Infusion

Hand in hand through a garden of morning fog
Wrapped in its cocoon, fed by each other’s warmth
We stroll down

The fogs of life are clearly seen,
but sight through them's not clear,
without experience on which to lean,
we move only

Walking in the fog,
Imagining days of London past,
Street scenes of poverty,
Captivating to the last.

In days of Empire,
England's

The misty distance
Is close, it’s here,
It’s all I fear.
As a ghostly prince
released a tear,
I let him hear
My screaming

"Where the Monocacy Meets the Potomac"

The witching hour has come and gone,

And there's an eerie orange glow;

The horizon