Will I Be Free to Walk in the Mist?

^{JASON R., IOWA}

Our prison rests on a small hill overlooking a lowland plain,
early Spring and Summer mornings a mist appears, the mist
reminds me of white fluffy cumulus clouds clinging to
the ground refusing to let go. That is, until the morning sun penetrates
its secrets and burns them away. Some mornings I stand motionless
not looking at or talking to another soul on the yard,
the mist paralyzes me. I surrender to its grip of hope
that teases me every second I am conscious.
My only respite comes with sleep, unless I dream
of the monster who called on me when I was a child,
then I lie wide awake. My fan blows warm air across my chest
and I ponder, will I ever be free to walk in the mist?
Will I kick my shoes off one day, will I peel my socks down
and wiggle my toes in the dewy grass, as I walk in the mist,
or will I laugh my ass off and then collapse on the ground,
as the mist melts away from the hot morning sun
abandoning me once again.