The fog circles 'round me,

But it isn't real -

A false, dreamlike ploy

To weaken my mind.

The voices, they whisper,

Hoping to fool me,

Hoping to lure me

To my sunken grave.

The fog dulls my mind,

But it's grey, never silver -

Its breath is not light

But the grey lure of death.

I shake off slow wits,

But the voices still whisper -

Sugary voices

Sweetened by rot.

I cover my ears,

But the voices aren't near me;

They're inside my head

Where I can't shut them out.

I stagger along

'Till I trip and I fall -

Six feet to the bottom,

Dressed in smooth white satin.