I used to write joyful poems,
pointing out simple wonders,
such as how raindrops glisten on a mushroom’s ruby top.
But now the mushroom is only a dullish gray to me;
Everything is wrong.
My feet are cold and numb;
they have nowhere to walk.
My fingers are limp and uninspired;
they have nothing to type.
Outside my door are the sounds of people losing hope and patience;
they keep me inside.
As does the white fog of uncertainty I can’t seem to look past.

-kk