There’s a mist on the water,
When I wake.
It gets thicker every morning,
Creeping a little farther into shore.
I spend my days now,
Moving my house,
Further up.
Trying not to drown,
In the inevitable gray.
It’s one of those things you don’t escape,
It’s one of those things that never goes away.

It rests,
Slumbers for a while.
But never stops,
Creeping up.
So close to me,
I fear that I’ll run out of energy,
To run,
To escape.
I’ll die in this foggy place,
Join the sirens with their frowns,
Dragging more people,
Down.

To the fog.

It's a clockwork — like the dances of phantoms in the hallways, in the glow of lights through the window at night. I stared like a burglar from afar, It's the fear and anger, that's keeping me restless — a reminder that I should sleep with one eye open, meager, furiously shame.

I understand how stubborn they are rewriting the history, as I try to recollect, catching trails like they were footsteps. Love is all they worship from the beginning of time, thus it crumbles them to dust.

Are they second - hand embarrassed? If I couldn't see the ghosts and shadows lingering everywhere, yet here I am nestled to all that fairy tale, for a momentary, and still plotting the sweetest lullaby. Did they haunt you too? as if it were a chunk to the armour or it counterfeits them?