The Man in the Fog

The Man in the Fog

A journey through solitude, silence, and awakening

He stands beneath the trembling light,

Alone in the depth of a sleepless night.

No footsteps echo, no whispers call,

Just mist that moves like a ghostly shawl

The world is hushed; the city sleeps,

While through the fog, his shadow creeps.

A single lamp burns faint and cold,

Revealing stories left untold.

His coat hangs heavy with silent rain,

Each drop a whisper of hidden pain.

He stares ahead, but cannot see,

The face of what he used to be.

The air is thick, the path unclear,

The fog becomes his only seer.

It wraps him close, like an unseen hand,

Guiding him where he cannot stand.

He is not lost, though he cannot say,

Where memory ends or fades away.

He feels the weight of time’s embrace,

Etched like lines upon his face.

He once had dreams, he once had fire,

Now ash remains of that desire.

The world moved on; he stayed behind,

A man adrift inside his mind.

The lamp above hums soft and low,

Bathing the street in a silver glow.

And in that light, the fog transforms,

From something feared to something warm.

He sees the ghosts of yesterday,

The friends, the laughter, the love’s decay.

They walk beside him, calm and near,

Their faces blurred, yet strangely dear.

He reaches out, but they dissolve,

Like riddles time will never solve.

Still, in the mist, he feels their grace,

The warmth of touch, the old embrace.

He stands still longer, breath held tight,

Half in darkness, half in light.

The fog becomes a mirror deep,

Reflecting secrets he must keep.

His eyes, though weary, start to shine,

With something soft, almost divine.

Not joy, not sorrow — something new,

A truth the mist alone once knew.

For life is fog — we drift, we stray,

We lose our sight, we find our way.

We curse the dark, yet beg for dawn,

We’re here, then gone, yet still move on.

He thinks of those he’s loved and lost,

Of all the bridges he’s once crossed.

Each memory gleams, then fades to gray,

Like streetlights swallowed far away.

Yet still he smiles, though faint, though slow,

For even pain can help us grow.

The fog that hides also reveals,

What only silence truly heals.

And in that quiet, he begins

To shed his past, his scattered sins.

The night no longer feels unkind —

It whispers peace into his mind.

He lifts his head; he breathes the air,

He feels the stillness everywhere.

The mist no longer holds him bound —

He’s part of it, of sky and ground.

A figure formed from loss and light,

He fades gently into the night.

Not gone — transformed, reborn, made whole,

The fog has cleansed his weary soul.

For every man must face the gray,

Must lose himself to find the way.

Through loneliness, through shadowed fear,

The heart learns truth when no one’s near.

The lamp above grows pale and dim,

Yet something bright now burns in him.

The dawn approaches, soft and slow,

And with it, peace begins to show.

He takes one step, the first in years,

Through mist and memory, hope and tears.

The fog begins to thin, to part,

Revealing roads — and his own heart.

No longer lost, no longer numb,

He hears life’s quiet rhythm come.

The fog retreats, the light turns gold,

And he walks forward, calm and bold.

He leaves behind the night’s façade —

The man, reborn, walks out of God.

For in the fog, he found his name,

And rose from silence, not the same.

The world returns, the morning sings,

The air now light on tired wings.

And where he stood, the fog remains,

A memory carved from love and pains.

So when you find your path unclear,

And clouds of doubt are drawing near,

Stand still, breathe deep — don’t turn away,

The fog will lift, and bring the day.

For in that mist, beneath the gray,

You’ll find the strength to walk — and stay.

You’ll see, like him, through tears and rain,

That being lost can make you sane.

In the fog, he was not gone —

He was only finding where he belonged.