Cane Mist the mists rise on the Cane like hands reaching out for me you see them well they are the hands of the damned beneath the sea they spend eternal death the eternal drowning the fingers move against my skin when I bend to look beneath the grey water I do not see their faces only my own peering like madness itself over the edge the fingers never grasp but fall short of strength. you and I are damned to always reach out like the hands at the Cane, never the strength to hold only to touch and hide our faces. Sprng '91?

Originally written about the Cane River, but I moved it
to a more classically misty location. A writing teacher
wanted me to ground it in my real life, so I moved it
back to the Cane, but I've never liked it as much since I did that.

writing home