Between The Lantern And This Fog.

A figure stands where roads dissolve,
cloaked in wind, woven from shadow.
The night leans in, breathless, still,
as stars murmur secrets too distant to hold.

The lantern wavers—gold against gray,
its trembling glow neither promise nor warning.
Does it guard, or does it guide?
Does it wait, or does it wander?

Fog coils like memory, slow and silent,
folding the past into its ghostly grasp.
Yet the figure does not turn,
rooted between knowing and the unknown.

The sky does not rush.
The stars do not rush to speak.
And neither will he.