Thru The Fog Poem by Michael Willson

Smells of nights,
Souls on freedom.
Looks are strange,
Then stars are bigger.

Feeling of unbridled,
Thru the thin, line of the end.
Flying around, but in the end,
I' m still on ground.

Poor shiney night,
And this war, black and white.
The winds of strange are still there,
Waiting for us.

Mind is just beging for,
Cold body,
Cold mind,
Cold life.

The end there is gone.
Only new birth is here.
Sending you to death,
And returning to life.

This pain, is not real,
But I' m trying to feel.
I need somebody,
To open world's eyes.
Children of these nights,
Please, just look wise.