A Stilling Fog

Here, my beam of haze
and wailing coarse
of flowering petals,
pale and seizing shades
On my case, of feeling
damned and camped
Out of pace, my place
the catastrophe feasting
a limping figure,
with a cake covering icy
snow of whites and
a feeling of anxiety
Flowing over,
a syrup of brown
and lining infinite count
of make-belief crowns
Only for the king,
and there lying on the
searching tower,
a figure of high
extension of snobbish
sights and welcoming seas
of reticent voices
calming, blending with
the now-becoming fog of
here and there
Now, you come and go
I must have been the
flapping sound of trees
whirling breeze and
warm stillness, whispering
here you are,
so there you go
Nothing ever stays
or moves
Nothing was ever
there.

Copyright © 2002 The Light Island