The fog lies like snow-heavy cloud descended
dampening sound but wreathing it with echo,
round, soap-bubble notes and clink-tinkle
of Yuletide trinkets, the ground so eerie-misted,
so shape-changing mythic, so frosted and frozen
one needs no imagination to creature it.

I have risen from dreams so impenetrably disturbing
and plot-twisted, that mind still drifts and tentacles,
a genie riding this hiss of dragon's breath-mist.