Into the fog.

A morning in the fog – reveling in it.

The blue haze of my dreamscape faded into the black of my darkened room.

Memory.

A new form of poetry maybe.

A creepy-feeling, Edgar Alan Poeish-type poem I wrote just for fun.

Free verse.

Sometimes we’re not aware of the piece we’re missing.

It is so tough to wake up in a cold morning. As a matter of fact, even the sun who has to wake up the world refuses to get out of his bed!

Fog speaks.