A foggy commute to work on MUNI last week.
Letters no longer fall upon the page
Thoughts grow stale inside this cage
The cold burn of a tear
It still lingers here
The morning fog, it drapes
All which we try to escape
Though it may hide & conceal
It preserves all that is real
Procrastination of this temptation
Hesitation by pure infatuation.
All finds balance on its scale
And beauty creeps in to this sad tale.
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