fog is in by Indigo TempestaFog is in my hallucinations, Seeing becomes the invisible chore of discerning. Fog is in my streets. In the roads I wander, in the home I claim, There is a perceptible sense of fog. Yellow lights fist-sized illuminate a sun on the hill. The roads lie, drunk with soupthick mist. In my church there is fog; In a little white house sit little white people-- Little white clouds are in each one: that of fog in everyone. Fog is in my insanity When I percieve myself but cannot percieve the questions nor the answers the wet universe gives, yet can truly feel the milk of a little fog in my brain room. It is not enough that I have taken in A little fire because sunlight is only a Precursor to joy.
01/31/2003 Posted on 09/21/2003 Copyright © 2025 Indigo Tempesta
Member Comments on this Poem |
Posted by Lindsay Sanders on 09/22/03 at 01:23 AM wow. truly a fantastic read. |
Posted by Max Bouillet on 09/26/03 at 03:30 PM This one seems a bit foggy. Sorry for the play on words. Very perceptive verse... glad the fog did not obscure your muse. Thanks for sharing. |
Posted by Christopher Shin on 09/29/03 at 07:16 PM I like how you wrote that flames are but a small bits of joy and we are stuck in infinite fog. |
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