First, the fog
Not drifting but drenched,
Weighting down thoughts
In a clinging web of thick paste.
Then, the wind burns through
A sizzling fire of a quick fuse
That sears the glue into rubber
Or maybe flubber – thoughts
So energized that they bounce
In erratic scatters of showers:
A constant, bubbling babble.
Too soon, the heat is gone,
But the once energetic balls
Are left scorched and jammed,
Hard and unmoving, into the
Walls, floor, ceiling, and void.
Around them, the murk is so
Thick it should be an ocean of
Flickering fish, but no such luck.
Movement is slow, laborious,
Haphazard, and hazardous.
Until at last, it simply
Stops completely.