The Fog In My Soul
Cold and damp winter fog
Creeping, seeping, contemptuously
Deepening, ever more heaping,
Invading, pervading my soul.
Like pulling off the freeway,
The "I" now moves at a different speed,
Trapped in a helter skelter tempest.
Slipping past the cool mists of autumn,
Descending further into the depths,
Of the season my soul is despair.
Emotional atmospheric air so full,
Like Santa Claus's gift of toys,
Laden of tortuous mental moisture,
Flooded with the tears
Of my very being this day.
There is no other.
Heart heavy gravity
Weighs, awaiting some opening
To pass for existence.
Thickness of black aura,
Like my head thick in gridlock,
Each breath from this swamp
Swells to quagmire of quicksand,
Smothering, gasping, guttural.
Gutter real, but no eyes
To see beyond the invisible.
Trodden, berated, disheveled,
Full of confusion and frustration.
No answers to conflagrant queries
Until hope open a passage
To sail beyond Dante's levels.
Time in this valley is
Dreary, a depressed desolation.
Copyright © Patrice Lauren | Year Posted 2005
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