Lit Fog
Fog never really settles, It hangs Like a pig’s carcass on a farmer’s tree, Stuck sobs, Silence right after the screamA sentence in a stuffy courtroom. Fog hangs bloated, thick The River Styx engorged and full With the breath of sighs And sickly words unsaid. Fog hangs on the wind of wisps and the weight of water: Water the sustenance. The taste or affirmation Of blood smeared on a cut, Of a sharp tongue, Of the lingering tendrils Of a scream.
~ Setenay Mufti
Alter Eggo Sweet Dreams interrupts sweet dreams. The melody softly nudges me awake; My delicately pressing pause on the perfect song To embrace the early morning, Makes my dream reality. Reality becomes nightmare. The ceaseless song jolts me awake; My violently slapping the annoying box That won’t stop the ear-splitting sound, Interrupts my sour dreams. The warm maple syrup, Blanketing the golden waffle, Cuts like butter; Melting in my mouth. The cool, sugary soup Overpowering the soggy, cardboard waffle Torn seconds before from the plastic The freezer-burned Eggo box. ~Lauren Knight