Moonlit Fog

The fog.
I can’t see for the fog.
It falls,
upon my home,
every year,
on this day
like a wolf on bloody flesh.
The morning
breaks.
Light streaks the sky.
And I think every year,
that maybe this time I would be
safe
and whole.
Every year,
this year, too
the sky had glowed.
At dawn.
Promising a bright day,
of warmth,
peace,
joy,
prosperity in simply being.
But once again,
the fog has invaded me.
Displaced me,
banished me,
from my own home.
It forces me away,
like a lowly dog,
I am dragged deeper into
the fog.
It chokes me,
claws its way down my throat.
It twists in my heart,
and I struggle but to
no avail.
For one night,
until the sun splits the sky,
I slowly die
under the rule of
the fog.
For days afterward, I am crippled
at the cusp of life and death.
Why must I endure this?
… just because I like
to talk to the moon?

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