Miasma

These days darkness grows,
a cold fog that never rises,
so dense we move slowly
groping like the newly blind
unable to distinguish
walls from road
each step a gamble
without map or compass
or any light to guide us.

Worse yet, this thickened air
is not like fog, mere moisture,
watery clouds sunk to earth,
but more like smoke and ash
from some great burning.
It sears and stings
our lungs and eyes,
and takes our breath away.
Until we move, choking,
blind, alone,
hands reaching out,
urgent, open, in hope
to find each other
even in this dark.