The Mist

One wintry morning,
I walked along a deserted lane, yawning,
The drowsy look in my eyes,
The church bells clanging.

It wasn't too far that I'd gone,
The lane suddenly got covered,
By the mist, which made my vision,
Hazy and blurred.

The road ahead,
Was invisible,
The roses, red,
Of flowers there was a bed.

The path was decorated,
To greet someone special,
And who was that supposed to be?
Left me, contemplated.

I just happened to see someone,
Dressed in a blue robe,
In his hand there was a gun,
That kept me mum.

"What's that for?" I asked,
Out of inquisition,
"That's my baby,
And dare you ask me any question"

I was confused,
As to what to do next,
What if I turn behind,
And he shoots me, that's what I guessed.

"Keep moving," he said,
With a stern in his voice,
"No complaining,
And no noise."

I heard the leaves,
Rattle as I went backwards,
I felt crushed like them,
And could hardly hear anything, except his words.

"Do you know the meaning," he roared,
"Of a rose?"
"No," I replied,
Too much of fear deep inside.

He gave me one.
I loved the colour,
But then, "Ouch," the thorns,
They pierced in my fingers like a dagger.

"Your life's like a rose," he said,
"You thought there'd be something special,
But your perception's been outwitted,
And now you're facing the devil."

He shot me and I was injured,
Yelping with pain,
He dropped the gun and fled,
Along the deserted lane.

"What seems pretty," I murmured to myself,
"May not seem that way,
You see darkness,
After a bright and beautiful day."


Kritika Bhatia's picture

I love writing poetries and articles. I have made writing as a passion. I want to become a journalist in future. Some of my articles have got published in the Inbox section of Hindustan Times. I am looking forward to publishing my poetries and articles.

Last updated January 01, 2014