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The turning point
was a fog
heavy and harsh
choking all hope
all sight
ending dreams
with a quick, decisive stab.

Screams of disbelief
like wind-chimes in a cyclone
a mind trying to find meaning,
looking back for signs,
wondering why the earth disappeared from beneath my feet.

Both planted so firm, at least I thought, on a feeling.

But these pass. Like he did, this sniper, and I am still unable to curse his mother.

Fondness became despair,
like the second foot thrust into
the same pyjama leg.