mist of thoughts.

I wonder why

when I write what I feel

then and there

my worries they

crumble and flee

like a batch of mist

rigorously soft

yet hard to catch

if not for this moment

there is none other that can

inspire me as much

to write what I feel

in this very now

that is mine alone

yet

they remain no more

the second I blink

these fragile things as

they arise in my eye

I feel as if

I am

a victim of illusion

and myself the wand

causing the imagery that I see

as if, if I stopped writing

this very instant

I will be forever losing

the urge and the memory

of something as precious

as a stinging pain

a dark distaste

a sweet encounter

or an anxious state

all that makes a poet

out of someone might be

those emotions that are

captured fresh

just as they arise

throbbing with life

and alive in form

but

upon losing those

what remains of the person

is perhaps a grey mist

like a city’s pollution

that waste of a gas

discarded by others

but captured by

breathing lungs

and fading with haste

while leaving behind

nothing but

an uncanny and

a human form of

existential distaste.

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