The Light

A fog hangs around my town
The light can't be found.
This haze clings to my days,
Shifting lazily it stays with me,
A silver shroud that plays with me,
A grey cloud that should be loud;
Its presence abounds but makes no sound,
And the light can't be found.
Is it smoke the signal of fire
A blazing pyre, fueled by desire,
Choking the access to freedom and air,
Blanketing the light burning there?
Or is it the withering dew lapping at the wind,
Darkening the skies before the day begins?
The sun ought to be when the moon is not,
White-hot, an electromagnetic molten sphere
Reigning the skies, glistening there.
There, where that wall of solid silver air appeared.
And in that air I am bound
Surrounded by misty shadows
And the light cannot be found.