Poetry: The Fog


We live in the impenetrable fog,

The perfect expression of impotence,

Where no one is capable of leading

Or following, where “Imagine” becomes

“Wouldn’t It Be Nice” and bright ideals turn

Like sour milk into clichés, where the love

For one’s kind scratches out a meager life

In advertisements dripping with the sighs

Of nostalgia, the moans of Peter Pan.

We are victims of having been gathered

Into masses, transformed into dreary

Statistics that reveal the opposite

Of the intention:  that we have destroyed

The right of a human being to choose.

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