A mist hangs like ladies silk,
hazy and obscure it shrouds our eyes.
Soft and white as babies milk,
it answers to it's own desolate sighs.
A web of lies. A yarn well spun,
you cannot see what beyond it lays.
The mist speaks with it's own tongue,
visible at times but then it fades.
Desolate mist who longs for a tune,
wistful sighing of those who were ensnared.
A dangerous pathway leads right through,
so the foolish are warned and should be aware.