My steps are covered in a feathery fog.

To where vanity reaches in the eyes of shallow water

And mixes like sugar in tea.

I can't see the ground

And it makes me believe that I can levitate.

I can't see the sky either

Which makes me see no limit.

"The perfect field of triumph" I thought.

But how the plains can blind what has been done.

As the fog started to wither

I saw destroyed buildings covered with a final farewell of a relative.

The smell of sin could breach heaven

And tell me how many angels it saw.

I looked down and witnessed...

Nothing but my feet standing on weightless breathes.

Their eyes stared into mine.

I wanted to move

But I couldn't see a base for myself.

So when was I to heal?