The junction where smoke and fog reside,
gliding with western winds beneath these clouds,
the moon fades perilously from sight
and it rains ash.
A thousand candle wicks are pinched
as the scent of acres burn,
lit like the flames we blow out so easy.
Control is a funny word,
like when a doctor says, "She'll be fine, I've got this",
the arborist cries observing only skeletal remains,
as his patient has deceased having control to blame.

Coffee so cold that it cuts through the dark like the moonlit rays’ mere hours before
The feeling of fog which should not last and could not for long  
No song for this, bask in quietness
For awakenings upon do not belong