Misty Morning
There’s always been something mysterious about mist
Like how its dense span swells from sky to ground
How it manages to possess the particles in the air
While all this is accomplished in silence- Not a sound.
Awe.
A thickening, impenetrable, heavy atmosphere
For hours I could sit, just stop and at it gaze
Obscuring any view that could possibly exist
And wonder how the clouds, from above, fell to be this haze.
Intrigue.
A morning mist, yes at the beginning of a day
Skilfully may cloud judgement and disorientation the potential to fabricate
Hoping for the proud sun to appear, just an elegant, simple, single ray,
As if it were the season of spring, in the budding month of May.
Hope.
The authority of the mist could settle on the mind
An indecisive attitude can infect ones concentration
Can dominate thoughts, conflicts a days design
Or pollute the hearts natural inclination.
Or
The total innocence of the mist, the oblivion of its purpose or effect
Could make an astounding impression on ones opinion
And to notice the humble beauty of a misty morning
I know that I shall never forget.
Incredibly sorry for the late comment Lauren. When I first read this I was blown away with the rhythm of your poem. I like how you have separated the emotions that the mist has stirred within you into different motions of thought. Very clever! Once again another fine piece from you, full of deep imagery and a skilful use of emotive writing. I'm sure that I can speak for everyone to say that we are glad you are back creating for the forum.
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