The fog lately has been endless and seems to have permeated my being. Apart from the occasional sunbreak my spirit is fogged in; all flights are grounded. I point my car down the freeway every day and every night curl up in the same place again, advances but mirage and setbacks like bricks dropped from some invisible freeway overpass; bricks all too real deliver blows to the head.
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Like lead my head would crush the pillow but the feathers push back, stronger than sleep. The feathers shove unrest into my soul and all night long we battle: My soul and I against the feathery ghouls, my spirit trod upon by goblins, scavengers who pick away at hope and thrive in heavy, feathery fog.
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