Fog and Sorrow

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The fog
hangs heavy
at my feet
and the air
is thick
and slippery. 
Dreams fade
to hazy
and crooked lines
reach out
with wrinkled fingers
like fog
in this witching hour
between good
and darkness.
And shadows flit
to and fro,
back and forth,
their wispy limbs
prickling my skin.
Phantoms
have followed me
back from the depths.
They hang on every step.
I’m sinking in
this mire of mist,
my useless hands
grasping for rescue.
But dank forest fingers
swallow me whole
in their extreme sorrow
and there is no escape.

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