Fog
The dawn is swallowed whole,
blurred shapes where houses should be,
lamps floating like lonely moons
caught in a pale and breathless sea.
The fog does not speak,
yet it says everything,
hiding half the world
so we must face the other half within.
I walk a road that seems unfinished,
the edges lost to drifting grey,
and every step feels like a question,
every echo like doubt returning home.
There is a sadness to the fog,
but also a shy kind of peace,
as though the day is not yet ready
to reveal its sharpest truths.
Somewhere a bird sings without fear,
trusting the unseen sun,
and I admire its faith,
greater than my own.
If the fog can lift,
then so can I,
and one soft morning soon
the world will come back into focus again.
About the Creator
Marie381Uk
I've been writing poetry since the age of fourteen. With pen in hand, I wander through realms unseen. The pen holds power; ink reveals hidden thoughts. A poet may speak truth or weave a tale. You decide. Let pen and ink capture your mind❤️
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Comments (3)
I like foggy mornings. They're like a mystery. Way to go on this poem.
Nice! I love it when you read my poems.
I love how you in it. True imagery of a fog. These line stood out for me: There is a sadness to the fog, but also a shy kind of peace,