The fog was making whispering sounds
It was rising up from the earth
Like spirits from the past
I spit dust from my mouth
Just to prove I’m a working man
But some people will never know
what happens past the mountains
The factories closed down and the people lost their minds
I don’t mean to be rude
But the old man at the coffee counter screams about the terrorists
Dead pets lie on the roads and wait for coyotes
I turn my gaze away when I pass them by
I told my doctor I’ve been broke for far too long,
but I’ve still had a cupboard full of pills for far too long
I think of church spires rising up to the heavens
I wonder if virtual dreams will replace drowning spirits
Will leaders form on the mountains to greet us?
The summit may not be reached
but I see a trek—salt of the earth people
winding its way like a snake from valleys to mountainsides
Darin Milanesio is the Metaworker’s Public Relations and Social Media Manager.
