There is a Fog Which Blocks My Path
There is a fog which blocks my path.
Though it is silent and clear as glass,
It is a dense weight, pressing firm against
My weary mind.
I question the many variables that could
Possibly account for this numb, glass, cloud.
Whether these reasons are tangible or delusive,
I do not know.
Like a snow globe, my mind sloshes
To and fro against the dome,
While everything that matters stands rigid
At the base—
A paper-thin, wane, plastic, yellow house with
Two plastic children clad in red and green;
A paper-thin half-made plastic snowman stands
Forever in their wake.
All that I strive for bursts against the dome,
A snowy mushroom cloud high above the children’s heads—
And as I fight to catch ev’ry flake upon my tongue,
The heavy fog rolls in.
I have these memories—
I know these words—
I see these sights!
How does this taste?
How does this smell?
What did I think?
What did I feel?
But the fog consumes it all
Rushing rapids of creamy milk
That swallows up glacial chocolate chunks.
And all I know is gone.
I cannot recall such simple things
Though all these things are simple such.
Can I quell this foul fog?
Take up the globe and throw it hard—
The loud smash as glass erupts
In a liquid blast
As the plastic life cracks in half
And the base snaps off—
Watch my snowflakes
Amidst the mess,
Or am I just to sleep and sleep?