Living As Fog

Hovering vapor poised above a melting evanesce of vision, Floats with ambivalent attention towards the North and East’s collision. Watch the fog as it walks with nonchalance aloft the lake beneath, Passing by as would a train that lacks a track with clenching teeth. The whistling silence of rolling mist atop unshattered liquid glass, Portents the steam of conducted dreams we believe inside such gas. And so we ride the brume of boiled brine in a caboose without a bow, Blown by the ambivalent inattention of being an obtuse and bloated cloud.