Wisps.

These smoke screens.
Our comfort
Hidden by what we claim to know
What we claim to be
Hiding what we are
Who we want to be
We hold on to these wisps
Grasping, searching, hoping,
for a hold in the ephemeral.
But it goes on,
The continuous sublimation
the constant lack of stability
of belonging.
Until we stop,
grasping, searching, hoping.
And just let the smoke envelop us.
Cover us, hiding us again.
Lost in what it claims to be -
until we ourselves don't seem to exist anymore

becoming exactly that,
What we were hoping to avoid,
Insubstantial.
Smoke.Screens.