Invisible

Fog in the morning.
Not quite light.
Not quite dark.
What you can see is faint,
ill-defined.
You have become accustomed to this.
The fog.
An inability to see past the moment,
and a faith that whatever is on the other side
will somehow be as beautiful
as it is invisible.

About this poem.

Fog. Life. Love. Faith. Poetry is never about one thing.

Tom