The other ones,

they, they write poems about love,

or grassy fields and summer days,

or children playing in the sun-dappled brook,

lost in a revel, caught in the joyful haze.

But that's not me.

No. 

I write poems about rain.

Poems about mist, and fog.

Yet not the pleasant mist-

Not the mist that quickly dissolves into a sunny day.

And not the fog that reminds of warm blankets and hot drinks.

No.

My fog is the fog that ensnares.

The fog that reaches out at you with greedy claws, clutching at your throat, searing through your tears and laughing madly as the blind racing of your heart echoes into the uninhabited abyss around you.

That pummels your screams back down your gasping throat, compelling you to once again inhale the mantle of misery and isolation that surrounds you on the clearest of days. 

Forcing you to see just how small

and just how helpless you really are

in this wilderness. 

There are no maps for this one;

Oh no.

Because there's never been anyone to make them.

Because right here, right now, it's just you. 

No.

I don't write poems about butterflies.