Life in the Mist

Icy gray fingers,

like early morning frozen fog

twirl my hair like puppet strings,

unboxing the blue

& broken

things.

They write doubt notes on the bathroom mirror

Condensation with filled with condescension

I cannot see myself

clearly

They tuck me in & urge me to rest

while they twirl my hair and dance in my

head

they pull me into this cloud-like world

everything here a shade of gray

like the dreary London winter sky.

Every voice here is a whisper or a shout -

far too quiet, or far too loud.

The soft ambiance here feels hard -

forced and fake

like a baker's show cake

where the inside is Styrofoam.

This place is full of scores of people

but we all feel all alone.

I shiver

as those icy gray fingers

twirl my hair 'til I forget it

all.