MIST OF BAROVIA
Morning arrives wearing fog
like a warning it never removes.
The village wakes slowly,
as if afraid to be seen.
Roofs drip secrets.
Windows blink once, then look away.
Names here are spoken softly,
so they don’t attract teeth.
The mist is not empty
it watches.
It remembers everyone
who tried to leave.
Footsteps disappear
almost as soon as they’re made,
as if the road itself
is tired of hope.
A bell tolls somewhere unseen,
counting lives instead of hours.
Even prayer echoes back altered,
older, hungrier.
Yet roses still bloom
dark, stubborn,
their thorns fluent in survival.
Children learn early
how to smile without trust,
how to run without direction,
how to listen for wings.
At night, the fog thickens,
stitched with moonlight and dread.
The castle looms, patient,
a thought that refuses to die.
But still
a candle is lit.
A door is barred.
A story is whispered.
In Barovia,
hope does not shine.
It smolders
quiet, defiant,
waiting for the mist
to blink first.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
