A low-lying, grungy cloud of brown and grey sweeps the globe,
chaotic and sustaining.
The architects, divided, upped tools
and washed their hands.
Now it roams
waxes and wanes;
shelters the feeble;
blocks the brave;
and obscures the light-bringers.
Its true danger is the shadow it casts on land and sea:
leaving all distant
A bumbling unknowing causes other senses to heighten.
Those senses tire,
Soon, the landscape is resculpted;
maps don’t lead where they should;
the warmth felt, isn’t seen.
Detachment is the fight,
a war to come that needs winning.