Written about a dense fog I suddenly found myself driving in during the afternoon of Friday, December 21, 2007.
There’s a place where all life dwells
tucked in a blanket between Heaven and Hell.
No matter your belief...in its eyes, we’re the same.
We’re all of one heart and all of one name.
It’s a fog that sneaks like a tiger at night
and disguises everything whether wrong or right.
There is no bias within its vague, folding arms.
It will spare us or kills us...that is its sweet charm.
Headlights pierce it as though merely pale ghosts
searching...searching for some willing host.
Those beams as faint as a memory...they reveal no clue
what lays just ahead of this gray, misty hue.
Ground and sky became the same...no lines
created division to these two eyes.
Mansions and trailers lost in this dark veil.
White collar, blue collar...all were now pale.
It cares not who we are nor where we have been.
It cares not for our worship and not of our sin.
A cold heart beating over the freezing world below
a fog rising fervently from the dying snow.
So, onward I travel on this cracked highway
following taillights that will guide my way.
Thoughts of this dream litter my poor mind
creating monsters only seen by those blind.
I squint to see further, no use...all in vain.
The world was erased, no color remains.
The sun is lost...a pale marble somewhere.
Headlights keep dimming to reveal nothing there.
The fog is thickening...swirls greatly abound
as though mischievous phantoms on the prowl.
Where did it come from? It arrived so suddenly.
Did I fall into nothing...or has the nothing found me?
There’s a place where all life dwells
tucked in a blanket between Heaven and Hell.
We continue on our ant trails unaware of life around
and in that busy bustle, only nothing is truly found.
easly lost in the images created, teh sound bends my ear to the point where I am at once part of the words presenteed moving to a blinding need to escape, trapped in the mist of thought and remembering, well done.. Walt
In Atlantic Canada where I live we are noted for the worst fogs in Canada. When they roll in off the North Atlantic ocean it is like someone laying down a blanket of gauze that cannot be penetrated.
This is a magical composition in all its own rainbow of exoteric colors. Its rhythm mingles with those of Villanelle and Pantoum.
"The Nothing Fog" bears the aroma of beauty; pays its poetic dues to the treasure of Poetry, and enriches THE AMERICAN FINE LETTERS.
Much gratitude to the author of "The Nothing Fog" for sharing her jewels.
David Hightower’s lyrically expansive meditation on the whims of fate and the unpredictability of the human condition fill the pages of THE HANGING MAN DREAMS with thrilling music and mesmerizing imagery. Hightower’s richly infused voice echoes the e
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Regis
(((HUGS))) and love, and Merry Christmas,
Karla.
This is a magical composition in all its own rainbow of exoteric colors. Its rhythm mingles with those of Villanelle and Pantoum.
"The Nothing Fog" bears the aroma of beauty; pays its poetic dues to the treasure of Poetry, and enriches THE AMERICAN FINE LETTERS.
Much gratitude to the author of "The Nothing Fog" for sharing her jewels.
In admiration,
Andre Emmanuel Bendavi ben-YEHU