Fog

Shoes at the door.
Late again.
Empty halls.
Empty of welcome,
full of woe.
The fog's at the windows.
Condensation
On the leaves.
Drip drip,
My dissatisfaction
Descending the eaves.
The view is distorted,
The framework is crumbling.
At least when this
Is all broken down
We will be left with
A solid surface to stand on.
And perhaps it will then
Be daylight.