The fog comes down over the mountain.
Creeping...crawling.
Its tendrils twist down,
Ever downward.
The white mist seeps slowly down through the trees,
Sneaking upon the quiet, unsuspecting village below.
Closer and closer it comes,
Muffling sounds and giving the air a dull quality.
Blanketing the green hillside as it floats,
Closer the cool vapor comes.
The air grows chill.
The clouds above build and swell.
And suddenly,
The fog is upon us!
The clouds burst forth,
Spilling their precious, life-giving nectar!
The rain falls,
Pattering softly on the pave-stones and window-panes.
The only observer to this silent phenomenon?
A broken, lost soul,
Lonely and forlorn,
Mistaken, betrayed and used.
Me.
A contest entry
- The Mood Of Poetry... by Jepardy.
700 points, ended April 17, 61 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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This is a nice piece here. I love the imagery and the slow build of emotions in it. The end, just the simple word 'me'. That was perfect. Such a closing statement and feeling in just that tiny word. Very good job and good luck in the contest.
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thank you! i'm glad you liked it!
<3 jamiegirl
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