is it a haze, a blur or a veil?

haze has the air of a beautiful dream:

the sort where you recall only the feeling;

the occasional switch of the slide

in the kinetoscope of life, reverie, life

like worlds passing through a window

as opposed to you passing through the world

soaring past the bokeh

of living street lights.

green, orange, red, orange

sometimes blinding, sometimes dull

desaturated shrines of stone

and crumbs of the moon

lining your lower lid

dawn to dusk spent

drifting through the

moonlit sandstorm, crumbling

to follow the calm current

of wind itself

a lingering blink pleading

to fulfil its loyal duty

but beaten

back

by

life.