The Fog

I wooed the fog that clouds the hills,

Dewy kisses on virgin trees;

Crimson colours cover the cheek,

That harbinger of the winter breeze.

I wooed the fog that is formed and formless,

Over hidden streams where the dryads drink.

Dressed in robes of priestly purity,

To shroud the reek of clandestine ink.

I wooed the fog, he winked at me,

He played me like a game.

And sang a song that stirred my soul,

There's none that I could blame.

Ah! I did not see the blazing signs,

Over blazing embers of forested pines,

Seeped in passion's resinous tears,

Burning, perched on all my fears.

Or was it the haze?

Forever I gaze,

Even now,

At that visage unfazed,

I am led,

Into a forest deep,

Where lovers meet,

And ravens cry,

Their evening prayers,

And I am left to weep, to weep,

For the fog I couldn't keep.