Fog

fog

i stand alone—

on broken homes.

*

and nothing screams fall more than fog-filled dawns,

on mildewed lawns.

the fast feeling of leaves crunch,

red and yellow

bunch.

the season of moving fast—

from summers past.

*

so soon the colors changed,

delineate the mood in grass—

the humid heat estranged.

the fall,

spiraled into

meritless bloom—

turned spiritless doom.

from fog-filled rooms to—

splendid silence.

quickly—

fall from the autumn branch

move blissfully in the gale,

what seemed so sweet—

a spiraling leaf,

had soon turned soiled and rot.

still i yearn for yonder blanketed in rose-filled fog.

a succinct song that hums while

descending—so doleful.

*

and nothing screams fall

more.

copyright micah hill 2025