My entire life I have struggled with reality.
It is a darkened street on a full moon
Where banks of fog encircle my small existence,
I can only see a few feet in front of me, and
As I glance backward, only a portion of my immediate view
is unobscured.
I squint, but
I cannot look into the future
I cannot look into the past.
I can only see my fate as it unfolds, step by step, in front of me.
It is only my footfalls, the drapery of water droplets on my skin
Swirling in and out of my lungs, pressing against my eyes.
I walk, and I feel myself strangely enough
trust in my own steps,
trust in the moonlight I cannot see.
Like the whirring of the contemptuous wind that rattles
The valley below,
A hindrance tugs at my soul
The brushing of fibers at their very tips
A chalky, dusty substance that irritates membranes
Something has constantly bothered my soul.
I've written more about death
Than I have about life.
I've written about what could be stirring behind the edges
Of that fog.
I can make out the shapes of bare limbs and branches
Suspecting this realm of which I walk
Is but one forest in the infinite galaxy
Of my consciousness.