The World Tilted

The World Tilted

The world tilted
Slowly, unnoticed, but by painful degrees.
It became not black nor grey, nor wall or fence.
Too cunning to be physical, allowing battle before winning
But fog, a red, slow bleeding, fog
Seeping into everything held dear
Viewed, through the pain of insidious life
Fight or flight?
Choices made then cast aside, to be made again and again.
Repeating patterns, no chequered flag to call halt
To fly briefly or melt into the redness of nothing?
How can you fight fog?