by Jarandhel Dreamsinger

Mists, swirling;
a dank and bitter morn.
Like unto, yet different from
so many come before.

Mists, swirling;
a haze before my mind.
Like unto a bitter fog,
my soul it seems to bind.

Mists, swirling;
bane to man or elf.
Unless I fight my caged soul free,
I'll never be myself.