Wispy tendrils drift around.

They sweep and slink and sink

into the softened ground.


They cloud the air, sight suffers.

The brights shine into eyes.

Straight lines blur together.


The monster won’t go away.

The lanes shift, swing, and squirm.

Collision, driver sways.


Burning metal, screeching screams.

Weakening eyes, blinking tears.

A now gone soul, reaching.


The fog rolls in, drifts away.

Wraps around, drifts on ground,

comes and goes, but never stays.



AN: Yes, I know I am very behind on #NationalPoetryMonth but I’m catching up! Keep an eye on notifications, this is the last poem for tonight but there will be more tomorrow. Thanks for reading, and following!


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