I saw the sun, stared at it for moments and minutes until we understood one another. Dimmer than the moon, dimmer than the dull orange streetlamps, drilling through obscuring fog until it bore no more. Still, a blind white eye in the sky with dignity. It bleeds through the fog and despite being millions of miles away, the stately sun soldiers on, fighting its celestial war on terrestrial planes - for whom?
Despite the cold, the earth is closest to the sun in northern hemisphere's winter. The blade angles of the sun towards the earth and its proximity create the bluest of skies, when pulchritudinous clouds don't intercede. Our candles lit, furnaces stoked, chimneys puffing like the nostrils of blocky dragons, space heaters sanguineous, blankets piled high - snow is a great insulator, but it's only insulating the cold.
Everything from an angle, I see
dimly, profiles of people shifting as trees
in a deep dervish fog -
vague and thin as paper and twigs
is the world lightly limned in thick mists -
does everything still exist or are we
just ghost ships in a graveyard of disbelief
illy lit, our breaths just a fog factory -
try to see if this world is alive or just echoes,
phantoms, and wisps, i don't know,
know no way of escape from foggy dreams
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