I feel my toes in the fog.
They ache—anchoring down
Like the buried roots
Of despondent trees.
There is no mirror above,
There is only
The thick slate hue
Of a single cloud—paneling
A layer of what today means.
I feel my fingers in the fog.
They twinge
As the melancholic air does
During the autumn churn.
There is no mirror above,
We are the evaporating rain
With waning fingerprints,
Like the morning moon—
In an existence that burns.