The trees seem to be more at peace in the fog
when the winds have anchored in loss,
the sun’s harsh rays are shielded by a cloudy display
and all conversation has come to an end.
The silence is stilling, but still we were stirring
upon a friendly foundation of uncharted waters
and no lies were spewing but something was raging.
Now, where does it cease? What doth dwell?
This must be the dawning of something astute,
for uncertain am I of chance,
but also not quite comfortable with fate;
no signs nor prophecies could counter the bluff-
will myself to allow such forward progression.
And though my vows I do not break,
broken were they this night and should I forgive myself,
allow this fool of a heart to play both friend and foe
to the solitary action/reaction I begged not to recreate…
not that there was no inkling of hope and so
I find that there is no regret,
nothing miscalculated, nondescript.
Only onward through this fog
that still seems to hold these trees in awe
of all that was never meant to be
and of all that surely never will.