Pay no attention

to the redundant brume as

it passes by

The mist with a mind of its own,

making its way through monotonous silhouettes

as it slithers in the thick air

The fog festers vision from

viewing the

sights that lay forth

Turn to face it once

and you’ll regret it

I know

I’ve done so once, twice, a few times before

I’ve been “blinded” by the mist, by

its richness and its cunning

Illusion, Iridescent appearance like

trickery in its purest form

mockery in its nicest form

Deceptively manipulative, like

the ones engulfed in it

if the mist had hands it was

Shaking my hand with the first

flipping me off with the second

and with the third it crossed its fingers behind its back

Indeed, the mist can have three hands and it’s

almost as if that were possible, since

the mist isn’t supposed to make sense

It thrives as rope pulled

down from the limbs but

up by the spirit, though unclear when and how

But isn’t that always

the case? That love “blinds”

in its own ways?

Nothing but a redundant

obscurity, just another

distraction along the way?