The Mist

Photo courtesy of Charlie Lansche— lastchancegallery.com

My Drug of Choice

the last shadows of a fading mystery permeate
beneath another mountain’s lonesome breath

autumn’s forlorn spectrum drains its paints
across a stretched canvas of my Kamas valley

the solemn monastery of this evening shiver
liquify soft greens of melancholy meadows
and scatter their wandering crumbs of cattle
like pepper seasonings over pensive pastures
moaning as old choirs of a ruminating dream
spread on graceful mattresses of buoyant life

the last melting lights of this holy sanctuary
illuminate thin shrouds of silver-white mists
that ascend quietly and drift surreptitiously
along cold gurgling mirrors of watery silk

I’m embraced upon paths of an emerald edge
dangling grass hollowed by innocent glances
of dogged streams that gulped ragged ridges
of mountain blades—bearing angles of anger

its ripples leave me stranded on lingering dirt
saturated between weights of my strange story
and whispering prayers of a heavenly rapture
beyond our smokes of pride, schemes, and time

such a lovely haunt that enchants weary hearts
and heals folks like me—bound in dark chains
of battles with mental and emotional anguish

sacred solitudes society must always safeguard

I’m blessed to flow with such waters and drink
from their clear tonics of peace and reassurance