Treacherous fog.


Its chilled damp fingers cover my eyes,


Surround my head,


Draw the breath from my lungs.


Then I am an empty shell.


Obscured by fairytale


Wisps of cloud.


And I am beautiful


From what you can’t see,


Like a soft-filtered picture,


Or a candlelit dinner.


And the ghastly cloud


Softens the echo of my


Empty soul.


As soon as they’ve left my mouth.


My prayers vanish,


Fade from sight,


Disintegrate into the


Mess of air,


And nothing is real.


 


 -Lamentations 3:44


 You have covered yourself with a cloud
       so that no prayer can get through.


 


So I just discovered the “Footprints” feature on Feedback log.  Who has been visiting my xanga from California? Rhode Island?  And Korea, the Republic of.  hi, sam.

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