As if we’ve wandered into dark chances,
A fog descends through thick forest branches
With the silent drop of a heavy drape.
Our first intuition is for escape.
The fog uncenters us, spreading us thin —
Once guiltless we feel we might deserve sin,
That the fog is a judgement for not being —
Not feeling, not hearing, and not seeing —
Not as we might and now we know we must.
It’s not too late! The fog is life, not dust.
Look back! Don’t let the other fall behind,
Or you both might become equally lost.
There could be nothing where the sun once shined,
But only now. Soon you’ll know heat or frost.
My book of the first 200 of these sonnets is now available for purchase. Click here: My Human Disguise.
