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The Fog

Whispering, Wailing, Wheezing,
The white blanket awaits,
To coat the tips, the tops,
The very beings that sit

The wisps emerge,
From an unknown location.
Locations through these wisps, 
Will remain unknown

Whining, Whistling, Withering,
A dull grey settles above,
Below the above, The beings
Are blind to the world they know.
Knowing is different from seeing,
Seeing is what makes a house a home

The wisps flit in and out,
Outside the blanket grows,
Like a knitter, knits away
The sheets themselves will go

-Poem Fanatic
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