National Poetry Month Day 13

Into The Mist

The trees are sinister
Ragged edges of fog
Like tattered cobweb-fingers
Beckoning eerily

Between the hummocks,
Tiny rivulets
Of unnamed water
Not flowing...perhaps waiting.

The air is alive.
Dank, resonant,
Hollowly echoing
Cries stilled before forming.

I stand at forest's edge
Neither able to move
Nor to stand still.
Pulled in, scarcely knowing...

Where will it lead me?
The mist is leering,
A dank scent like tired hollows
Filled with nameless, moving things...

I must not enter.
I cannot stay here.
I cannot continue down this path.
I cannot prevent my going...

Is this how it feels?
Is the end of all simply this grey nothing?
Am I simply going to be absorbed here?
Is there nothing but this mist?

No one answers
No sound.
My hands are disappearing.
My eyes are dimming.
Where am I?


Aisling the Bard
September 2008