A fog describes itself.
The rhyme scheme is abab.
I walk upon the dank, dark moor
And drift from post to post
My feet are wisps on the damp floor
My step is softer than a ghost’s.
My hair’s like tendrils that always waft
My form is a clammy embrace
My figure’s gentle, light, and soft,
I leave no print or trace.
In fancies frightened I make faces
As I wander through the bog
Making eerie, mystique places—
You know me by my name of: Fog.
