The Mist

In the beginning
Mist;
Bitter air pushing against laboured lungs
Forcing themselves apart
In angst
Against the grain
The Middle.
Mist; rising to meet its ally in the sky
Of silver-gray basket weaves
Tying knots in our minds eyes.
The End
Mist; rolling off rolling out
Squeezed between layers of mud, memories, hopes
And dreams
Escapes unscathed.

©Cath Piltz 2017

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What strange sorrow should befall this fine morning,

As an imploded star’s deepest blackness should seek to draw out

all of life’s joy from me?

And what sealed box that no key would unlock

Should steal my heart

that forever yearning could never touch

nor hope to possess?

Her eyes her eyes her eyes.

©Cath Piltz