In the city of San Francisco,
Everyone is diagnosed with the rare disease of eternal blindness.
This is true. For I was a victim too.
It can settle onto a person’s souls for days,
Till the moment we decide to move away.
This grey, silver lined sky,
That hovers over my head like a colorless blanket,
Is something that I learned,
To recognize for the first time in my life.
I even tried to go up and touch it,
Grasping the light smoke,
Feeling like slushy permafrost that’s not too cold,
To burn the nerves of my skin,
And dissipate through the intended space of my fingers.
“It’s the wind’s fault anyways,
That this fog can’t be seen as beautiful.”
I keep telling this city.
But no one listens to me,
As it always gets swallowed,
By the sky,
And the clear shoreline,
Until it gets released,
And becomes a mere echo,
Like a fog horn blaring,
Across the bay.