• Fog
    The sound of silence
    thick and liquid
    drained and pierced
    by the young traveler
    one who spoke God's language
    knew his words
    (liar liar liar)
    making us all believe as well
    Speaking slowly
    interpreting with vocal tones
    drumming fingers
    As if deciphering the rain,
    the sky's complaints
    "April is the cruelest month"
    That voice which rolls and echoes
    a mild tide which laps at my toes
    crawling higher
    over skin and fingers
    linger without warmth
    no security
    no hope
    those the most brave
    the most afraid
    wrapped in red cotton
    to hide away