Desolate

The mist figures parade in circles. 
Rising, random, marching onto some unknown destination. 
They gather together and release into the air. 
Like a monks gathering and joining in their own ritual. 
A thing you cannot touch, join or understand. 

The road forward is full of unknown rituals to me. 
They are wrapped up in care for a loved one. 
The heart is in a tender, fragile space. 
Like mist on the water. Running to and fro. 
Not knowing where to rush to or whether to follow. 

All it wants is to scoop up and hold something tangible. 
All it grasps is mist. Which flows out and away. 
Never to turn into anything solid but a longing. 
Filling every part of a soul lost in the way. 

Yet it holds and whispers a promise. 
Of love, of healing, of return to the earth from which it came. 
In the eyes of one who loves and cries tears. 
For the loss of contact that once was.