Bitter Bliss: A Poetry Collection

Cerulean Mist

Cerulean mist swirls around my feet.

The scent primes my body for attack, 

aggravating my eyes.

Why do they use the poison such?

Their audacity and profligacy has me seething.

The mist moves as if preaching,

color dark and impermeable,

shapes forming but so mercurial.

If only I could argue,

if only it would understand, 

but it is too contrary and witty.

It also isn't alive,

and I won't be much longer.

I wish I could feel something,

anger, fear, but I cannot.

The turquoise fog creeps up my body

and a tendril enters my ear.

The clamor that follows is gut-wrenching,

and I bend over and heave dry.

The silence that comes as I run from the smog

is sublime, beautiful, and I sink into it.

But the azure gas dazes me,

and my heart beats irregularly, 

palpitating out of rhythm.

I gather my strength,

knowing I am only postponing my death.

No one will notice;

people die so often it is quotidian.

Dragging my heavy limbs up the slope

is arduous, and I doubt I will reach the apex.

My brain slows, and I slow with it.

If only I was impervious to the poison,

but I am not.

So I fall to the ground

and breathe my last breath.