The Fog

Through the mist he drifts, incoherent of that which is attempting to cut through the haze

In an inner world, one of his own creation

A safe haven where he performs feats only dreamed of

Where he lingers at the cosmos core

A place where his wondrous gifts are highly regarded

Where all are in awe of him,
he is the centre of their deliberation

In the murk he undergoes sensations
not experienced from without

Outside of the protection it is
oft only the discord that is perceived

The harmony is somehow filtered,
it does not see its' way through to his heart

When life becomes intimidating, he hides in his stupor

That is where he feels safe

There he does not have to deal
with the pain brought on by his perception

Douglas A. Walker

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