In the garden of my muse

This small hour, in the garden of my muse, I went myself from there. The fog extended, mixing lovingly with the fog, intertwining with the branches of the trees. Licking their feet, being coiled on their knotty chests, it was spread out over the bed of the dead leaves, over the wall of a sky without life. Its voluptuous forms became deformed under the caress of the wind. My hand was tightened meeting only the skin of a transitory body. My muse is thus. Losing my reference marks, I was inserted in the vaporous forest, according to a way without end, goal. I did not have any of it. Behind me, the night was closed again, enclosing me of its pressure. I felt his presence. It was enough for me.