The thin, shallow crawling, of clouds that weigh down.
Strolls across the ground, lurking deep within towns.
Taking in space, as if it were nothing.
Absorbing those, like a weightless crushing.
Moving around in a timeless flow.
Ignoring order, of boundaries and rows.
Although, white and thin.
A dark thickness lurks within.
The strings of air, each carry, a secret from those living and deceased.
Carrying them from the setting of the west, to the rising in the east.
What exactly is the name, is the thing that keeps me calm.
As the swaying of Florida’s hypnotizing palm.
However, gets me nervous and frustrated to where I shake my fist.
The name is, an alluring sound called “mist”.
The Story of Mist