I can see it,
As opaque as fog,
Hovering over my thoughts like a rug.

I reach out to feel it,
But a chill runs down my spine,
A contrast of what I hoped to be a good sign.

I try to inhale it,
A sensation of flowing ice in my lungs,
Speaking more truth than would hundreds of tongues.

I finally understand it,
An illusion of a kind,
One where I am a good version of myself and control my own mind.

This was a facade of warmth,
Of shimmering sunrays,
And a mirage of worth,
Hiding a series of sickening sombres.
© Grinchy