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.