An Intrusive Fog

Cold, clammy,

This air has a body of effervescent water;

but the bubbles trap clouds,

Silky to the touch,

White air, more solid than the light in my eyes.

Cornered,

by nothing but a whirlwind of grey and white.

All space has ceased,

All time is lost.

What remains, is the abusive hand;

that gropes me,

but neither can it hold on,

nor can I escape.

All I feel, is colder.

Twitching legs,

beyond the tenderness of a shiver,

before the violence of seizures,

start moving.

The hands morph into sharp edges,

into large pieces of furniture.

Into shiny cars, into woods.

And I reach the shelter atop the hill.

From here,

all that's visible is a solid white

with a patchwork of scattered mass;

a photograph devoid of color,

framed in the memory.

Soon the fog will clear,

and the now, non-threatening objects;

will find their way to move.

Image Courtesy: "Silence. - Russian Carpet" by Sasha Olegovich