Notes About The Poem
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This poem was not submitted to the current contest. I submitted another poem instead. Just sharing
MISTS OF BAROVIA
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Above the village,
serrated towers bite the sky~
Castle Ravenloft sits,
contorted and hollow-eyed.
Its towers lean like broken fingers,
clutching at clouds that won’t disperse.
Below, Barovia exhales smoke.
Chimneys cough.
Windows glow dull yellow~
like the eyes of something
watching from the trees.
Streets remember feet
that no longer walk them.
The Count’s shadow
stretches long,
though the sun never rises
high enough to cast one.
His mist comes creeping~
not like a thief, but like a god
who knows it owns the air.
It curls around ankles,
licks the sweat from brows.
It slithers between houses,
licks at doorways,
whispers promises
it has no intention of keeping.
The castle does not loom.
It waits.
Stone fingers curled
around the valley’s throat,
patient as a noose.
In Barovia, the bread is always stale.
The wine tastes of copper.
Children learn not to answer
when the wind calls their name.
And every night,
without fail,
the fog rolls in—
thick, hungry,
a second sky pressing down,
reminding them:
You are not lost.
You are exactly where he put you.
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