I am the mist,
Always seen,
Yet never known.
Lost to you, Lost in your separation.
A cacophony,
So loud and rapid.
And whether it be,
Highland or lowland,
Hill or vale,
You would not care,
When I shrouded you.
Only the deepest,
Asking,
Who is there?
Before their own fog,
Takes them.
I am the mist,
Veiling sacredness;
Begging to be known.
Finding apathy,
In the irony,
That I am more like you,
Than you know.
And whether it be,
A touch or a glance,
And embrace or caress,
Eyes aching,
And so alone,
Begging,
The fog to lift,
And hardened hearts,
To know you,
And the sacredness,
The world of love and pain,
Within.
I am the mist,
And I am you.
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The depth with which you write these poems is truely remarkable. You are truely gifted
ReplyDeleteThe mist rolls onto the London streets and somehow it becomes the height of evil. Yet the light shines right through that fog exposing everything under it's blanket. As we are like the mist, we're masked to our fellow humans, but exposed to the core by the power and grace of our awesome God.
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