His body had grown tired, waking to a daily chore
wanting only to be admired, not this brooding bore.
He would bed himself at night soak the linens in tear
wondering if ever she might understand his only fear.
Upon waking in the morning, the sunlight at his gaze
wouldn’t be long a yearning, scrambling in a maze
For it is when the fog will hold our deepest analogies
only to fashion a reaction bold, our proven fallacies.
The deeper he would dive to find the light of day
less again he’d feel alive, wishing only for yesterday.
There was a time I could love a foggy morning, the scenery
could create a magical fantasy, settling winds for you and me.
© Thom Amundsen 6/2021