Home   Home

fog is in

by Indigo Tempesta

Fog 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.

Return to the Previous Page
 
pathetic.org
FAQ
Members
Poetry Center
Login
Signup
 

pathetic.org Version 7.3.2 May 2004 Terms and Conditions of Use 0 member(s) and 2 visitor(s) online
All works Copyright © 2025 their respective authors. Page Generated In 0 Second(s)