Winter Mourning

Future up ahead,
past in the rearview,
the surround-zero-sound
of morning mist, deafens.
I’m not sure where to go.

Driving towards the sun,
pink, chapped, sore skies,
speaking in future tongues,
searing as a headache;
I’m not sure what to do.

Heading eastward,
following lake-laden clouds,
heavy with contradiction,
pending, empty, who knows;
I’m not sure what’s next.

Inside my self,
grief has no color,
broken makes no sound,
tears take on unique shapes;
I know how I got here.

Beyond current concerns,
fog-lift will be forgiving,
head will mend soon enough,
heart will be slightly bruised;
I will get on with this.