The Figure In The Fog
J
James McLain
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Drifting here uncaring it is coiled
round tall trees
of a mind to speak it's white in wait.
Exposed I am to all whom come
my backs against the wall
the fog draws near.
The sounds of feet they carry on
as if they had my ear.
Dripping dropps the cold damp ground
my feet in loamy soil the smell
it tastes and feels.
Fair maidens are in times like these
unchanging, I have seen
the fog exceeds
its winter reach a face I can not see
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