December Haze Poem by Frank Witte

Around me this world was grey,
the sun’s piercing made unfit
by clouds of haze and dismay
that left all experience unlit.

Like the scent of a distant rose
You were far and yet so close.
Reaching through a merciless mist,
recounting feelings I dearly missed,

Your image stood before me,
on my lips a ghostly kiss.
A question phrased poorly
ended this innocent bliss.

'Tell me what you feel? ' I said teasingly to myself,
having no clue what an eerie silence would hallow
the search for an answer; into veinless depths I delve
of my soul that seems to transform deep into shallow.

Is what wells up and appears like wordless wit
a sense of humour that remains entirely unfit
to portray a passion that misses every ground
whose source, in doubt, may prove fully unsound?

Does my voice speak untimely, before I think,
and does my heart encourage me to bellow
until words like love and truth will fully shrink
and every notion of integrity appears mellow?

So should I cry out and yet utter no voice
as a spindrift of doubt clutters the choice
of verbs and nouns that should somehow express
entangled feelings of love’s unabated progress?

Her image still within me,
my ghostly hand on her cheek.
A question stated sorely
And an answer arguably weak.

Yet in all this frailty still
resides the resonant thrill
of a blossoming love’s force
that sets a heart on a true course

Your image is all I have now,
And it is to you I look, Miss,
For a question has become a vow.
And I pray for this innocent bliss.