Hidden Mist Poem by Michael Koelliker

Cloudy Water streams.
The filler of haunted dreams,
Hiding the spectres and the slivers.
Breathing it causes quivers.

Home to the Great Herder.
Home to the silent murderer.
From behind, knife through the neck.
You’re lying, body on the deck.

It doesn't think, it assumes.
It doesn't feed, it consumes.
It doesn't fight, it destroys.
It doesn't kill, it employs.

It is the maker of the List.
It is the Hidden Mist.

(04/18/2008)