“FOG OF THE MIND,” a poem by Bill Richardson
Early morning and fog has set in like an old weathered friend for coffee
It doesn’t insist, doesn’t intrude, simply is there
In it are all things seen in the day
The bright day
In it are also those things the mind let’s wander out
The mind let’s those things wander as if remaking the bed for a houseguest
They move with a languid ballet looking back at the host
Some wander away
Some stay awaiting the Sun to set them free from being tortured themselves in the confines of a turbulent mind. A haunting being haunted
Turning inward I see some not leaving, not yet
My ghosts not wanting to go away from the domicile of my mind
Not wanting to be lost in a fog
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