Myst.

Everything over the ground
follows me, catches my eye,
behaves so erratic it laughs at me, mocking my wondering why.
Everything's made up of clouds
To part them, I reach out my hand
but can't see in front of me far enough to tell if I'm having success.

Onward now.
The fog's closing in on us now.
Harder and harder to see.
The tighter you squint as you go,
and the lesser your eyes let you know.

Everything's slippery now,
racing away from our hands.
So drink up that water quick before it can lose itself down in the sand.
We wave goodbye sooner than that:
quicker than all this dissolves,
We'll find ourselves face to face; later we'll find our heads beating the walls.

Forward now.
The fog's closing in on us now.
Harder and harder to see.
The tighter you grasp when we're close,
the more we'll both feel letting go.

Not right now.
Don't rush now.
Don't look back;
don't look down.

Anything I feel then
could hardly live up to right now.
Or maybe what's hidden in front of my hand is what I'm seeking out.
I fear myself taking these steps…
left foot in front of the right.
What if you find what I don't and I'm stuck back here, wondering why?