Fog (1991r) Poem by Patrick Wescott

The fog descends like a shroud to envelop me,
Like the clouds in my mind which make me blind.
Drifting, swirling, floating, twirling it is relentless.
And its appearance brings a feeling of uncertain.

Its clear white form smothers all who stand still,
While those that move are as unsafe as the rest.
Yet a streetlamp gives solace for those who dare find it.
And all the while I am captured by its soft beauty.

To look up you would find holes in the clouds above,
Like the clouds in my mind where I have learned my little.
For in my twenty-first year I am still yet a babe learning to walk,
Freshly out of my parents molding arms I have small knowledge.