Fog

The air was thick

Like blood in a wound that had sat too long

Sick with dirt and vain attempts at cleansing

I find myself reminiscing

On things that should be left in the back of my mind

In a lock box

Far from keys

The air got thicker and around my played images

Of bats and switches and words no five year old

Could comprehend

I extend my arm into the images

To wipe them clean

With shiny degrees and well lit foyers

Each time pulling back a bloodier limb from the effort

Each time left with naught but a nub to work with

Paralyzed by my own attempts at sanctity

I have become handicapped at changing

All the wiping has worn what strength I had

And the wound festers on

Images play despite the power outages

My heart has had to bear

And still the air grows thicker every moment

I hear someone say my name.