Poems and Prose #97 - Mist

Into the fog,
I stumble crookedly,
mistakenly believing
I'd been forsaken
for my double-dealing,
and shaking,
I crumple to my knees,
overtaken by some
outside-in malaise
that's less distasteful
than it is appealing,
awakening some
strange anti-bliss
that's baked into
each jailhouse
and every single haven
for all the crooks that kill
and every preacherman
that's stealing.

I kneel here,
taking everything remaining,
raking my palms
across the pavement,
staring at the sky
the sun's concealing.