Poem: The Fog

I woke up to a mystical morning
where shadows were still in play,
Up in my bed, I was mourning
the death of my sleep early in the day.

Unsteadily and slowly, I moved towards the sill
of the window which remained unwashed;
Outside, everything seemed eerily still
and the in my mind, a thought crossed.

Perhaps it was not the dirty glass,
it must be what lurked outside -
A chill white mist or a fog that would pass,
- just Winter's attempt to play 'Seek and Hide'.

But then, away from the window I turned
and tried to look beyond my bed,
A white darkness was all I discerned
for the fog was in my eyes instead.