FOG LIFTING

FOG LIFTING

It’s been a long time coming,
But at last my boat has come ashore.

I am no longer sorrow’s child,
Nor desperation’s youthful ward.

The chemist he has worked his magic,
His Zoloft swims inside my brain,
Turning tragedy into triumph,
Dancing through mud puddles when it rains.

The clock is always running, and there are no timeouts.
The sand in the hour glass sifts right on through
And we just go on living, what else can we do?

Like ships out on the stormy sea,
We tread the waters cautiously.
And the enemies are fog and mist,
That cloud our vision and make us clench our fist.
For who has eyes that see in the dark,
And no one knows where the journey ends
After we embark.

I am no prophet, I am no seer
And have spilt many tears into my beer.
I have trudged through the misty rain forest,
I have stumbled along these London streets.
I am starved for sleep and blessed rest
And still I won’t admit defeat.

This time I am sailing unafraid into the mist
And the fine sand as it’s shifting.
For the tide at last is turning my way
And the fog at long last lifting.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED