Lost In Fog

A fog-filled graveyard
atop a lonely hill,
the soil icy and hard,
the air both silent and still.
December looms white
by the cold glare of day
and monochrome by night
like a Plutonian bay.
A fist of flowers
held in small, calloused hands,
a mourner at all hours—
riven in the borderlands.
Despite her dirges,
her child remains below
while grief wells and surges
for a seed that will not grow.
The mourners now gone,
only she now remains
in the dreary-dark dawn
after the lachrymose rains.
From fresh fallen rain
the mist rises with ghosts
from her sorrow, the pain
a communion with her hosts.
When Death came to fetch
a frail, fast-fading son
afterwards any sketch
of memory is half-done—
a second passing,
his smile now forgotten,
the maggots amassing
and all memories rotten.
Mists drift by and down,
clammy, chilly, and pale,
exhaling from the ground
and her billowing black veil.
Within is without,
the fog breathed out and in,
and no prayer, plea, or shout
summons the help of Heaven.
Dabbling devilries
beckon sweetly to us—
revenant revelries
much like ignis fatuus.
Lost lights in the fog
call to her with their glow,
and woe is a Hell dog
shadowing us where we go.
Yet, ghosts are aloof,
blending within the mist,
and there is but one truth:
lost in fog, they will be missed.

2 thoughts on “Lost In Fog

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