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I sit alone atop a heap pf dying flowers if any life remains all signs are blocked I can taste the air growing fainter by the hour as it gets out in the arms of a damp depressive fog
make my bed upon the roots I can't see them through the thick white air nestled safely between their grooves firm embrace assures me they are there
lost
a white world of nothing
I feel no cold
no discomfort
I see no landscape
endless white
filled with nothing but painful longing undirected and unfulfilled and yet still there is peace
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Nemophilic Portland, Oregon
ENFOLDED IN THE SHADOWS OF THE LOOMING FOREST
CRIES OF TERROR LOST IN THE FOG
NONE ESCAPE
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