Gray Mist Of The Soul

A fog flowing in the woods,
Softly suggests of vagueness

Uncertain directions and
Intentions headed to dust...

Like drivers, we can't see too far

Past the headlights, and trust

We’ll arrive, wherever we’re bound,

Babbling-away on the phone in the car,
For drive into the fog we must...

So, we find comfort on familiar ground,

Flow-on with cycles of holy events,

Keep habits, gadgets, and lovers around, 

Which give illusion of order, peace of mind,

A rhythm to carry us forward,
Groping, hoping, cozy, and blind,

Through our one-time only,
Remorseless, earthly grind…

A fog in the woods, touches everywhere,

It still can caution, it still can scare,

And can hide what's not really there...

(Art by Mark Harm Niemeyer)