Fog

Fog

The dawn is swallowed whole,

blurred shapes where houses should be,

lamps floating like lonely moons

caught in a pale and breathless sea.

The fog does not speak,

yet it says everything,

hiding half the world

so we must face the other half within.

I walk a road that seems unfinished,

the edges lost to drifting grey,

and every step feels like a question,

every echo like doubt returning home.

There is a sadness to the fog,

but also a shy kind of peace,

as though the day is not yet ready

to reveal its sharpest truths.

Somewhere a bird sings without fear,

trusting the unseen sun,

and I admire its faith,

greater than my own.

If the fog can lift,

then so can I,

and one soft morning soon

the world will come back into focus again.