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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