Fog On the Hills

I am a man searching for a place. I turn about staring into a vista, just hence – just erased. The temperature nosedives while eyes wince. The congealing air grows muscles, a brawny blanketing. It is a young ghost needing to be revealed in the cold-sweat of existence, a fledgling elemental seeking form. I can’t help but feel that I am just coincidental, not any part of what’s happening here.