The Fog

By Luke Shearin

 

The fog is there.

In the morning, and at night.

It creeps, crawls,

and slithers along.

It blankets everything

in a silence.

A silence so quiet,

it seems alive.

And perhaps, just perhaps,

it is alive.

Maybe that’s where

the monsters come from.

The Boogey Man, and that

green, oozy one in your closet.

Maybe they lurk and linger

And call the fog home.

Maybe they do,

maybe they don’t.

But I sure wouldn’t want

to look, if I were you.