The unknown rests in front of me
shrouded in smoke and fog
and I wonder
aloud if there’s anyone
beside me. No one answers
except the hollow echoing
of a too high voice. 
If I reach out my hand,
will I find a wall, or
will I find vastness,
endless possibilities of ways
the air may travel, molecules
zigzagging about, bumping
into each other, into solids, 
into themselves? I do not know
if I should keep going
or remain still until the fog
dissipates. And when will
that be? When eternity stretches
before me and there is no behind?
When the ground is so saturated
that the bones float to the surface
and the sky has run out
of rain? I cannot say. I cannot see.
So I will feel my way through
the mist and the fog and the
oppressiveness of air. And when
hope raises its head in my chest,
I will stand at the precipice
of squashing it and allowing it
to breathe and fester, and then,
and only then will I know
the difference.