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
Light streaks the sky.
And I think every year,
that maybe this time I would be
and whole.
Every year,
this year, too
the sky had glowed.
At dawn.
Promising a bright day,
of warmth,
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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