unrealized

A poem about an inescapable decline.

The fog that waylaids wandering souls
Filters through into their bones
And when the soul lies down at last
The fog comes up and blurs the glass
That traps them there in bodies creaking old
Like stoney houses buried in the cold
And though the soul may beg for sight
It knows it cannot speak for fright
For its tongue has come to ash
And oblivion wears its bridal sash.

So night comes for uninvited souls.