The fog fills every crevice like gray clay,
A sculptor’s wet dream
Erasing all the hard edges
To recreate the world anew
Reshaping it into what it should have been,
All that was ceases
As the steady hand carves
Not the shape of what he sees,
But all that around it
That needs to be removed
From what already is there,
And I wonder, if she sees this, too,
If she has a vision of what would be
A perfect world
A shape in the fog
She must rediscovered,
Can she create a world
Which makes up for all of her mistakes,
Can she recreate it to meet her needs,
And does she from her vantage point
See what I see there,
The shapes that ease out of the mist
To give hint of possibilities,
Only to vanish again
With the shift of fog
For her to search out, and find,
Or are we both looking out at nothing,
Seeing only what we wish for
Not what we’re able to create.
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