Through the Fog

Author: Emery Lane Grey

  • What Waits in the Quiet

    Photo Credit: Martin Adams

    It’s the presence that waits for you in the silence,

    the thing that doesn’t need eyes

    to watch you.

    It slips in when the room goes quiet,

    when the air grows still,

    when you finally think you’re alone.

    It’s patient—almost gentle—

    as it curls around the edges of your thoughts

    like frost spreading across a windowpane.

    You don’t see it.

    You feel it.

    A slow awareness that something is there,

    too close,

    too familiar.

    It rearranges your memories

    just slightly—

    enough to make you question

    what happened

    and what you think happened.

    It blurs the line between the two

    until you can’t trust the ground you’re standing on.

    It whispers in a voice

    that sounds almost like yours,

    but not quite—

    like someone learned your tone

    by listening through the walls.

    It knows the places your mind goes

    when you’re tired.

    It knows the thoughts you’re afraid to admit to yourself.

    It knows the cracks in your armor,

    the ones you swear aren’t visible.

    And it sits there,

    in the dim corners of your mind,

    waiting for the moment

    you confuse its breath for your own.

    Because that’s how it gets you—

    not with fear,

    not with violence,

    but with familiarity.

    It doesn’t need to break down the door.

    It only needs you to open it

    thinking you’re letting yourself in.

  • Wave of Sorrow

    It hits out of nowhere —

    that wave of sorrow.

    One minute I’m fine,

    the next I’m drowning in feelings

    I didn’t ask for.

    I don’t even know what triggers it.

    A memory.

    A song.

    A thought I didn’t catch in time.

    Sometimes it’s nothing at all.

    All I know is that it comes fast,

    cold and heavy,

    like the ocean pulling me under

    before I can take a breath.

    And I hate that I can’t control it.

    I hate that something so old,

    or so small,

    or so invisible

    can still crash over me

    and leave me standing there soaked in sadness

    for reasons I can’t explain.

    But the wave always passes.

    It always does.

    Even if it leaves me tired,

    or quiet,

    or a little more worn down than before.

    And when it does,

    I remind myself

    that surviving the tide

    still counts as strength.

  • My Thoughts

    People ask me all the time where my thoughts come from,

    like there’s some peaceful corner of my mind

    where everything sits neatly in place.

    I usually just laugh a little,

    because if they really knew,

    they’d probably never ask again.

    My thoughts don’t come from pretty places.

    They show up from the things I tried to bury,

    the memories I hoped would stay quiet.

    Half the time it feels like I’m digging up old ghosts

    that refuse to stay dead.

    People think inspiration is soft and beautiful.

    Mine isn’t.

    Mine comes from nights I couldn’t hold myself together,

    from moments that broke me in ways I still don’t talk about,

    from the weight I carry even when I swear I’m fine.

    So when someone says,

    “Where does your writing come from?”

    I smile, because the real answer would make them uncomfortable.

    It comes from the parts of me I don’t show.

    The fears I wake up with.

    The wounds that still ache.

    The stories I survived but never really got over.

    And honestly, I don’t write because it’s poetic

    or because it makes me look deep.

    I write because if I don’t get this stuff out of my head,

    it just sits there and eats at me.

    So yeah, people ask.

    But the truth is simple:

    My thoughts come from the places I wish they didn’t.

    And most people really, truly don’t want to know.

  • Know That You Are Loved

    (Even If You Don’t Love Yourself)

    Know that you are loved

    even if you don’t love yourself,

    even if the mirror feels like a stranger

    and your own heartbeat sounds borrowed.

    Know that you are held

    in ways you can’t always see —

    in whispered prayers,

    in the quiet hope someone sends your way

    when you don’t even realize you need it.

    You are loved

    in the way dawn forgives the night,

    in the way a bruised sky still softens at sunrise,

    in the way life keeps giving you

    one more breath to try again.

    You don’t have to earn it.

    You don’t have to feel it.

    You don’t have to understand why.

    Just know this:

    on the days you’re breaking,

    on the days you’re numb,

    on the days you look at yourself

    and can’t find a single reason to stay—

    someone out there

    is grateful that you’re here,

    is rooting for your healing,

    is carrying the love

    you can’t yet carry for yourself.

    And until you can feel it —

    let that be enough.

  • Blue Skies

    You can always find me where the skies are blue.

    Where the world feels a little lighter,

    where the weight on my chest loosens its grip

    just long enough for me to breathe like I used to.

    I go where the quiet lives.

    Where the sun breaks through the clouds

    and warms the parts of me I keep hidden.

    Where the wind carries my worries

    a little farther than I can reach.

    If I disappear,

    I’m not running—

    I’m just searching

    for the version of myself

    that doesn’t hurt so much.

    So if you’re looking for me,

    look where the skies open wide,

    where the world feels kind,

    where the color returns to my soul.

    That’s where I go

    when I need to remember

    that I’m still capable

    of something brighter

    than the storms I’ve survived.

  • Ghost

    Photo Credit: S L

    There’s a ghost in the mirror still haunting me.

    A version of myself I thought I buried

    beneath all the nights I swore I’d start over,

    all the mornings I promised I’d be different.

    She watches me from behind the glass,

    eyes hollow with the things I never said,

    jaw tight with all the things I swallowed

    just to make it through another day.

    She knows every secret.

    Every relapse, every regret,

    every time I tried to outrun the truth

    and tripped over the pieces I left behind.

    I wipe the mirror,

    but she doesn’t fade.

    Some ghosts don’t rattle chains—

    they whisper your name

    in the quiet moments when no one’s looking,

    reminding you of who you were

    and who you’re still afraid of becoming.

    And maybe she isn’t here to scare me.

    Maybe she’s waiting

    for me to finally look her in the eyes

    and say,

    I’m still here too.

  • The Road of Quiet Fires

    The day begins where shadows sleep,  In valleys carved by ancient rain,  

    Soft whispers on the mountain keep  

    The memory of a world in pain.

    The wind remembers names once known,  

    Etched deep in stone, forgotten graves,  

    It sings to roots and seeds unsown,  

    Of all the dreams the silence saves.

    A bridge of gold across the mist,  

    Leads wanderers through twilight’s hall,  

    Where every loss and promise kissed,  

    Lie folded in the nightbird’s call.

    The stars ignite their patient eyes,  

    And gaze upon the turning sphere;  

    The heart becomes the sky’s reprise,  

    A mirror to what we revere.

    Through candle smoke and drifting years,  

    We walk, we pause, we break, we mend;  

    Our laughter laced with sudden tears,  

    Our longing with no certain end.

    Yet somewhere past the forest gate,  

    Beyond the reach of time’s design,  

    Two rivers meet, dissolve their state,  

    And all that’s lost becomes divine.

    So let the dawn resume its grace,  

    Unfolding slow, serene, and wide—  

    Within each heart, a hidden place  

    Where sorrow learns to sing beside.

  • I Feel Like Something’s Wrong When I’m Not Depressed

    I don’t know when it happened—

    when the heaviness became

    its own kind of home.

    When the silence tasted strange

    unless it carried a little ache.

    Some days I wake up light,

    breathing easier,

    and instead of feeling grateful,

    I flinch.

    Like joy is a trick

    and peace is just the calm

    before the next collapse.

    I look around for the darkness

    the way other people look for keys—

    worried I misplaced it,

    worried its absence means

    something worse is coming.

    It’s messed up, I know.

    But when you live in the storm long enough,

    sunlight feels like danger.

    Happiness feels like a costume

    you’re afraid to wear too long,

    in case someone rips it off

    and calls you out for pretending.

    I’m trying to relearn myself,

    trying to believe that ease

    doesn’t mean I’m slipping,

    that softness isn’t a symptom,

    that feeling okay

    doesn’t mean something’s wrong.

    But truth is—

    sometimes I only feel real

    when I’m hurting.

    And I’m still figuring out

    how to change that

    without losing who I am.

  • Life Is Beautiful

    Life is beautiful,

    even when I don’t always see it—

    even when the days blur together,

    when the light feels distant,

    when the weight in my chest

    makes everything look dimmer

    than it really is.

    But beauty has a way

    of slipping through the cracks—

    in the sound of someone’s laughter,

    in the warmth of a morning sunbeam,

    in the quiet moments

    I forget to appreciate

    until they’re already gone.

    I don’t always notice it,

    don’t always feel it,

    don’t always believe

    the world still has softness

    left for me.

    But then something small happens—

    a gentle word,

    a familiar song,

    a breath that comes easier

    than the one before—

    and it reminds me

    that beauty doesn’t vanish,

    it waits.

    Life is beautiful,

    even when I don’t always see it—

    and maybe the seeing

    will come easier

    if I keep looking.

  • Flint

    Photo Credit: Pete F

    Flint strikes out

    and pierce the dark—

    a single spark

    against a sky

    that’s forgotten how to shine.

    For a moment,

    light is a knife

    cutting through the quiet,

    a reminder

    that even the smallest fire

    can challenge the night.

    The dark leans in,

    hungry,

    certain it will swallow everything—

    but flint is stubborn,

    and sparks are born

    with rebellion in their bones.

    One strike,

    one flash,

    one heartbeat of brightness—

    enough to tell the shadows

    they don’t own this place,

    not tonight.

    Sometimes

    all it takes

    to change the whole sky

    is a spark brave enough

    to burn.