Mental fog

 

Driving through mental fog.

Can't see the road in front of me,

could be heading to a cliff edge

or a forest full of trees.

Headlights approaching.

Full beam.

Blinding already tired eyes.

Distorting, distracting with visual lies.

I'm lost.

Hazard lights blinking.

Thoughts no longer thinking.

Breakdown imminent.

So, I stop and survey my predicament.

 

On foot, I traipse through the mental sludge,

each foot fall heavier with this cerebral mud.

Flagging.

My aching bones, muscles and joints.

Mind - ragged and torn,

can't figure which way the compass points.

I want to stop,

lay down in this emotional slop

and let the world just spin, whilst I fly off.

 

Further on I walk.

Heavy sodden footsteps,

internal talk.

Voices telling me to quit.

What's the point?

Stop and sit.

Let the ground swallow,

be buried in a grave,

swampy and shallow,

for there are some you can't save.

Brace the weather,

wait until forever

has been and gone

and admit that the murkiness

has finally won.

 

Bewildering visions all I see,

silhouettes of crooked trees,

reaching grabbing out for me.

I'd run, but the ground is tugging at my feet,

pulling me in, a mortal morsal to eat.

So, I walk with fear, my good old friend,

hope this fog will soon end

and the weather will clear,

maybe then I'll find a pathway out of here.

 

 

 

Thanks for reading

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Peace, Love and Poetry 

 

Kyle