Someone’s mist just
stumbled through the doorway.
No footprints, no strange
melodies echoed on frozen stairs.
Just an impression
left indelible, yet invisible.
These are not wise thoughts
to think of you. These are
Dangers, completely self-imposed.

We do not talk of tigers
in the cornfields down the road.
The tiger, you see, stays native
to it’s home in Wildest Africa,
and Furthest India, and certainly
not in the cornfields down the road.
Yet I speak of you,
and your mist ever stumbling,
and I know you to be here,
indelible, yet invisible.

Like a tiger in a cornfield.