A Wandering Life..

The fog is what wanders here and there bringing sorrow and death. You wouldn’t quite know what would happen when the fog swallowed you up in all its detailed glory. You’d be left there to die with no one around to hear you cry. Your screams, tears, and cries for help are smothered in this smoke-filled stretch of road. You could be in town or out at the end of the street, but the fog will trace your steps until its right there with you. Eating you, swallowing you, and embracing you. It takes what’s left of you and leaves you there to rot, it floats swiftly on by, not leaving a trail, as if it was never there. Of course you’d be lying there, polluted, stained, and suffocated. This fog never meant to hurt you, it only wished for company in its blinding realm. It saunters around like a cat on a wire, smoothly, and elegantly roaming the globe.

It could protect you or kill you, it could cause you to wreck, or hide you from harm. You cant quite run from it, as it does find you eventually, you could be right in the middle of it and not recognize that slight blur that it leaves behind. It could just be there behind you and you wouldn’t dare look back at what looks like a depressed fog. It stalks you for hours on end until its satisfied and done looking at what seems like real life. Its like it wants to be like us its like it wants to be able to walk around and travel, but then it remembers what it is. A fog that hides the trees and mountains upon layer and layer, a wandering blur that traces all the way back in the old years. You wouldn’t quite explain what it was, nor could you feel it, but when you were little it was what held you when you ran into it. As it cradled you, you couldn’t tell where you were or where your mother was. 

You cried and screamed, and again you were with your mother. The fog drifts away and you wave goodbye. And its gone, its off to another country, another place, and another time. Like traveling upon clouds that just float on through the trees, the mountains, sky scrapers, and the space needle. In all its depressing elegance, it will always return to get one last look at what seems like home.