Sal Mystlic - Mist

Grasp the withered air,
Bring sorrow to the skies,
As the the white consumes,
The story's of the lost,
Comes the air grasping a path.

Crisp as a morning breeze,
The dampness of the air,
Why does on get lost,
Becoming the swirl of hate,
The swirl of missing fates.

Why does one wither in the pain,
Get lost in the endless abyss,
How can the air be so thick,
Can the air become bitter,
The air be so strange.

How can it?

Sal Mystlic

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/mist-15/