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The hirsute,
emboldened,
mist, descended.
Like, a creeping,
crawling,
barber’s floor.
With, surging,
vapoured,
hairs, extended.
To cover,
the clippered,
unseen, unsaw.

Like, rusty,
knees,
knelt and bended,
to sweep,
the offcuts,
a million score.
Dustpans, were made,
from, grey streets,
wended,
and, hand-held,
streetlamps,
for, the chore.

The blinding, fog,
then, pounced,
it’s chance,
like, a lion’s mane,
on, a Zebra’s,
corpse.
And, like, a lash in eye,
it caught,
a glance,
of, why, misconception,
agonises,
sore.

The unforetold,
ensconced,
romance,
became, a butchers block,
of, knives,
and forks,
set, within,
the murky mist,
and, discontented,
foggied, manse.

Finally, the silver, outcasted, plumage, received, a scourging…

A prevailing wind was, newly, emerging…

A haar-shaped,
basket,
carried by, a stork.

Landed,
softly, gently,
by, a lonely door.

An angelic cloud,
kicked,
and danced.

As, the prevalent wind,
made a fist,
pretended,
and, knocked,
three-times,
then, took a walk.

The cloudy child,
then, took mystied,
breaths, into, human-form.

And, a long-trying, couple,
found, at long, last…

…that, an open door,
meant, their mist, and, fog,
had, ended.

© poormansdreams

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