Shrouded by the fog
Tears stuck in my throat,
Unwilling to make themselves known to the world.
Embarrassed to be seen
Because the reasons lay behind them, not in front of them.
Sleep is such a welcome guest
But even sleep asks,
Who are you?
Should I be here?
Solitude,
making me look inward
and see what others see.
Necessary.
Chaotic.
Like the head of Methusala
With a thousand tendrils pointing in different directions
Each one squirming to be heard, to be seen,
Which is real, which is not?
The fog narrows the world
To my small circle of vision.
I lean back, and dream
The path appears,
there, in the corner of my eye.
But I have to walk it alone, I fear.
Fear.
Paying the price.
Loss comes to me with the fog.
Suddenly all the tendrils lay together,
And weep.
How beautifully you have penned the sadness and dilemma. Loved it.
Thank you so much Kritika. So much.
You are welcome ❤