Sinuous swirls float
On the wind,
Into the blue,
Into nothing,
Along with the words I wrote.

The mountain top clings
To the mist
That slips through
Jagged fingers
As the wind that carries it sings.

Fate dictates the scene at hand.
Though it claws
And fights to
Grapple the mist,
The mountain was fated to the land.

And the mist returns
From whence it came.

It's the melancholy death
Of a union
Of beauty,
But it is a death all the same.