Jennifer Donnay Poet Free verse

Where the Fog lives

The gravel crunches beneath your boots, a sharp, rhythmic sound that feels far too loud in the heavy silence. 

On either side, the steel rails stretch out into the mist, gleaming faintly like two parallel lines that never intend to meet.

The fog swallows everything, draping itself over the skeletal remains of a town that used to brim with life. 

Through the gray veil, the rotting timber of the old church steeple leans precariously against the sky.

 Decades ago, the doors were wide open, and the warmth of the congregation spilled out into the street. Now, the damp air carries only a heavy, suffocating stillness.

It is completely lonesome out here. Where families once gathered for Sunday potlucks on the grass and children chased each other along the tracks, only weeds push through the cracked earth.

 You can almost hear the faint, ghostly echo of old hymns and shared laughter fading into the mist, a poignant reminder of when God’s love felt tangible in the handshakes of neighbors and the shared meals of a tight-knit community.

Now, the tracks remain dead and cold. You are entirely alone, walking past the ghosts of a forgotten sanctuary, moving forward into a gray void where a thriving home used to be.

I feel as if I’m walking alone aimlessly, searching for God, It’s only me, 55 years ago with no anchor, the burnt up ashes of my past  are slowly coming together again. 

The FOG is my blanket, my shield, my enemies cannot see, the scars upon my arm show my inner pain,  the lonesome sound of a train whistle is my sign, I must climb aboard as to disappear into the abyss..

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