The air, a breath of autumn’s chilling grace,
A whisper crisp, across the morning’s face.
I walked within the fog, a ghostly shroud,
Where earth met sky, and sight was disallowed.
The mist, a river woven in the air,
I swam through dreams, where silence held its prayer.
Each step a hush, upon the dampened ground,
No other soul within this realm was found.
The trees emerged, like phantoms in the haze,
Their branches bare, from summer’s golden days.
A sense of loss, within the vapor clung,
As nature’s mournful melody was sung.
And in that space, where reality seemed frail,
I felt the touch of autumn’s haunting veil.
A lonely beauty, in the misty gleam,
Adrift within an ethereal, waking dream.
THE LONELY WHITE WOLF 