Within a clouded room
I steam.
Lost, figuratively, in whispers of water
The door is only the next mile away
The ceiling is infinite, be it that it canít be seen
Maybe it is only over my head
Maybe Iím at the top and should be looking down
Maybe I should be looking for a way out
Of the clouded room
Until I was in I didnít know what lost meant
I was never lost, not when I knew the directions I could go
North South
Good Bad
Right Wrong
And Maybe In Between
Now I chase a ghostís tail
Trying to capture what emptiness feels like
I see nothing therefore nothing exists
Believe me when I say this sucks
Iím in a fog but deeper
Iím in a storm but less loud
A tornado caught forever in its eye
I am in a clouded room
Not knowing how
Perhaps the next step will take me home
Or perhaps it is the edge of the cloud
Either way Iíll get out
Either way I wonít be lost anymore
At home
Or on the ground.
By Don Bernal

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