Fog
Appears a ghostly vision, fog in from the sea.
As if sentient in movement, shrouds all in it's mystique.
With a cyclop eye, lighthouse lends a mournful wail.
While specters breath dampens all, your marrow the chill impales.
Out of sight, crashing waves, sound loud as if they crawl,
following the living mist, as it breaches the seawall.
Seeping round panes and doors, into every crevice.
The very air liquefied, a grey oppressive presence.
Wood smoke blends it's flavor, to the tang of the air.
In hopes the flames beat it back, keep tendrils from drawing near.
Slowly fog tastes it's fill of wooden planks and blood.
It leaves a sodden salt strewn smell, seeming to just dissolve.
Folding back on itself, returning to the brine.
Fog waits yet another morn, to return to shore and dine.
"Your Best Poem" contest
Placement: 2nd place
Featured poem of the week ending
Oct. 31, 2010
Copyright © Paula Swanson | Year Posted 2010
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