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.
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