Note: You can change font size, font face, and turn on dark mode by clicking the "A" icon tab in the Story Info Box.
You can temporarily switch back to a Classic Literotica® experience during our ongoing public Beta testing. Please consider leaving feedback on issues you experience or suggest improvements.
Click hereThe fog rose up from the asphalt
So that it appeared to be an army of ghosts
Tattered and almost transparent
Guided by a wind I couldn’t see or feel
Marching right, some veering left,
Stragglers, confused, chasing to catch up
Standing above it,
The scene was so clearly what it wasn’t
Ghost rising from their graves beneath tar, sand, and gravel
Had I been walking with them, down there,
Among them
I wouldn’t have seen
I would have walked across their graves
Unknowingly
Blithely breathed their misty remains
And never realized that ghosts
Other than those in my head,
Walked in daylight
This poem was mentioned in the Archival Review thread, in a picking through Lit's archive of over 35,000 poems.
----------
Poetry is the last refuge of writers who can't write logically and concisely. This writer personifies that, and compounds the error with a limp-wristed poem about ground fog. Whoop de doo! A pragmatic (legitimate) writer would have condensed this whole thing to one short sentence: "Turn on yer fog lamps, Pa." LOL
Ron123XYZ@foreveranonymous.naturally
What a hauntingly beautiful rendering. Something especially lovely about this one.