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Adelina Jan 29
On the edge of light and darkness,  
Dreams break through the gloom.
Where the cries of seagulls drown in the dense gloom.  
The shadows on the stones are their strange secret.
Ash stars are painted with thick brushstrokes.  
They cut the eye like a blade in the hand.  
Each wave blurs the boundaries.

The cry of the soul, crushed in haste.  
Blood clings to the hands like an innocent  
Here the murders sound louder than the earth,  
And every rustle stabs at the nerves.  
There's no end, no beginning, no light.  
Only the imprint of a hand that seeks farewell.

The clenched knife is as cold as my fear.
The wind whispers: "You're not alone here."
I stand like a prisoner on empty shores,  
Hoping the sea will scatter the remnants.  
Every step is a confession of my emptiness.

How do I survive this? No one taught me.  
A place where the light dies in the blood,  
And pain oozes from every fold.
The blood on my hands won't disappear in the rain,  
The evening, squeezing you to a scream.
Waiting for your eyes that see no reason,  
And silence is the only thing that eats away at my soul.

The winds sway the bridges on the edge,  
Where the sea hides the sins of others.    
And the fog covers the footprints I've left behind.
But the wet sand keeps me from falling.  
I stare at the footprints, disappearing into the mist,
And the sea can't hear me screaming softly.
All that's left is a look    
in which the night has long seen no living thing.  
But the blood that ran from my fingers to the sand.

A thick fog creeps over the land,  
hiding the world in deadly dumbness.  
Every step here is like a sharp edge,  
And the air is poisoned with someone else's guilt.  
The screams are gone,  
Only ashes in my head and clammy fear.
A thin line runs down the stones
They've been waiting for me, these walls,  
Every stone knew my face.  

People? No. There are only figures that look like people,  
Their eyes are the emptiness that breaks the shadows.  
Somewhere in the depths, a silence rings out,  
But it's not peace, it's a premonition of death.  
You look around, but you see only the bottom,  
Every minute is a black stream  
Where the past tears at the living voices.  

And there they are again, the grim faces,  
Their gaze is lust, like a price to pay.  
I step toward the water where the fog is dreaming me,  
But instead of light it shrouds me in shadow.
With every breath I take, it gets worse,  
The sand sticks to my feet, cuts like a knife.  
The blood will always be deeper in this terrain.

In the midst of the storm, I found my inner peace....

here they are again, the grim faces,  
But now I see their reflection.  
In their gaze is no longer rage, but forgiveness,  
And every stone knows I've stepped into the light.
I step into the water with hope in my heart.  
The sea embraces me, and carries me further downstream.
M Solav Jan 23
Paved roads of cars that roam
Are sure to grow weary on my bones.
And there’s a high hill close to home
Onto which I seldom venture alone.
How I recall those many days of yore
When we’d go fresh out in the morn;
And up that hill now far across the globe
Would stare for short eons into the fog.
Written on February 9th, 2022.


— Copyright © M. Solav —
www.msolav.com

This work may not be used in entirety or in part without the prior approval of its author. Please contact info@msolav.com for usage requests. Thank you.
Maria Jan 18
I’m painting my love in autumn colors.
I’m painting the flame of leaves underfoot,
The greyish sky, rainy and foggy.
The crying love is a natural mood.

Boarded benches are in the park
Under the shade of naked trees.
And fog is ahead, lots of fog.
My love is hidden in it indeed.

Behind the fog my love is flowing
Inexorably, irrevocably like a water.
It’s running off to nowhere away,
Without a trace forever in autumn.
Palace in night fog
draped in a pale vestal sheen —
Moonlit débutante
Inspired by this photo I took in late December: https://bsky.app/profile/jackgroundhog.bsky.social/post/3lfuvm7sqcc2f
In the night of purple murky clouds
that fell from heaven, a heavy haze
envelops the old palace, a velvet shroud
that blinds all but the keenest gaze.

Yet there atop the palace gates,
a spotlight sends out golden blades
to slice the velvet and spite its weight:
gleaming swords by brighter spirits made —

A signal to the clouds, return up high,
cast off their shroud and kiss the sky.
Inspired by a photo I took in dark fog at night at Sanssouci Palace. (Yes, it’s a Hendrix reference.)
Jack Groundhog Dec 2024
In creeping fog
of wintry night:
My eyes are clogged.
Billows of blight.

Dull cataracts
veil antique lamps,
gun cotton tracks,
pale wreaths of damp.

Yet though here loom
dun brooding hulks
of cold stone gloom
in misty sulk

the lamps shine forth
and shall not fail
’til dark fades north
and pulls the veil.
A meditation on surviving major depression inspired by a particularly bleak foggy night at the New Palace in Potsdam.
Madeon Dec 2024
And then the night comes –
she smells of fog
and secrets,
with stars looking down from above
and remaining silent.
Zywa Dec 2024
I pull the curtain

open, just to stall for time,


and study the fog.
Novel "The Green Knight" (1993, Iris Murdoch), chapter 2 Justice

Collection "Unspoken"
Jenny Gordon Oct 2024
...what half freaked me out was, having been mulling the first line, the thing itself overtook me like it was some wrestling match.


(sonnet #MMMMMMMMCMXLII)


Fog manifests itself in headlights, hale
White haunting lo, the black night til, what hence?
How mists oertake aught trying for passage, dense
Naught blotting out the distance like no bail
Exists, until I canna help, nor fail
To thus reduce speed as "password?!" thence
Seems now demanded, so I pray, defense
But Thee alone, oh LORD, Whom shall avail.
If fear was what they wanted, I'd as t'were
A start of it, recalling folk complaining too
Oer its keen essence blocking travel, poor
As mulling how I cherished it, t'would do
Me in now, in a trice, if only. Stir
Vague mem'ries of its courtship like, what's true?

27Oct24a
Forced to find fodder and pull off writing one fresh sonnet daily taught me to search for inspiration at all times, composing on the go, whether or not I could scribble anything down at the twinkling moment. This began while driving I-55 southbound after 5am.
KarmaPolice Oct 2024
A lone tree stands
Its colour fades,
Leaves muted
By the grey

Dense fog
Blinds the copse
Their shadows
Slip away

By Darren Wall ©
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