Self portraits, past to present.

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Mourning Fog

Where has my voice gone to these days?

Far over yonder behind gloomy rays

of light leaking in between plastic blinds,

and a somber blur over all of our minds.

How do I speak a language so old

the ones who spoke it with me got cold,

and wandered off to other planes,

and places that my soul ordains

fairer than this which we tread upon now,

this, though beating my heart, I avow.

I have been to these places and seen many lands,

I have argued with angels and shook demon hands.

I conversed with deities, ancient and new,

they confess they’re no greater than I or you.