Brian H. Appleton

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Mist

In dreams of the mist the red rocks speak
the oak tree is my oracle and guide
I saw the guardian spirits standing
by conferring upon my state of
grace, my state of becoming
as the geese flew past
passing their tales
back and forth
with a soft
echoing
sound
calling
my name
promising return
and fields of golden grain
but I am stuck somewhere on
a floating island lost at sea now
that the fog has lifted and left me naked
and burned and not a pretty picture for the world