God of the Mist


The autumn rain is beautiful when cold
The meadow flaunting a desolate mist
A glint of the night seeping in from the window-glass
A far away breath rolling over, almost unearthly in its presence
Of a vague curtain of death, hanging

I am a man
a pool of reflection
As unearthly, as seeping, as desolate
I flaunt the meadow, the mist, the cold
I hang over the land and give meaning where there is none
I am a god in the mist
Slaved to importance but saved by blindness

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