Waiting for the Bus on a Foggy Day

Waiting for the Bus on a Foggy Day

A foggy night led to a foggy day

 and the sky rested his head upon the earth,

 and all the hair he had spread on the bed

 in curls consumed the pillow,

 white tufts and grey dispersion.

 Under the heaviness,

 the earth, though great, was crushed,

 and yet he willingly submitted to this weight,

 to feel the sky upon his chest,

 against his lips.

I was waiting for a bus,

 while others waited for rides back home

 from either strangers or friends,

 ready to put themselves in another’s hands

 and vanish in the mist,

 in the expanse of grey.

I love the mist that makes the lights

 mundanely on the street,

 return to their first shape,

 the antediluvian flame of God’s Starry Night.

I love the feel of air that is not wind,

 heavy and thick with heaven dew,

 and breathing in and feeling dampness in my breath.

I love to feel as if I’m lost,

 ungrounded in some shoreless sea

 surrounded by miasma

 clinging to me and to the land,

 consuming all that is not near my sight,

 as if I am alone amongst the vapors.

But the sky does not rest on the earth forever,

 and he must rise from off the bed,

 and earth must let go of Heaven’s hands,

 slowly return the clouds,

 let them be drawn into the atmosphere,

 cocoon us safely from afar,

 and though the clouds will be distant again,

 that state is temporary too,

 sometime the fog will come back,

 and lay with you, and maybe then,

 praise God be so, that maybe then

 when next the clouds rise up,

 you will rise up with them.