FACING MISTS

The poem is about aging and the redemptive aspect of forgetfulness.

Which mists must I incinerate
When dreams long lost emerge?
Some, lacking claws, disintegrate.
The taloned God will purge.

The mists which linger navigate
Young seas through old tired sight.
To mercifully invigorate
A clouded sense of right.

When they disperse I'll contemplate
Mists of what's coming near
And through that flight congratulate
Myself that I'm still here.