The Mist

One evening, as I made my way

Through city streets that homeward led,

There rose a thick and shadowed mist

That filled my very soul with dread.

It shrouded all the lamps that shone

Like beacons in the twilight sea,

And blotted out the stars above

Which do the fate of men decree.

About my feet and face it curled

And lay there like a clammy snake.

I could not run, nor walk, nor move,

Nor yet a cry or whisper make.

Within my heart was kindled fear

That chilled my blood and made it freeze.

Into my head came horrid thoughts

That limped my hands and shook my knees.

Then to the earth I stumbled, stunned,

As though the mist had dragged me down

With fingers withered, old, and grey,

Draped in a drab and dripping gown.

From deep within my tortured self

Arose a thin and wailing cry

That pierced the mist, drove back the gloom,

And rose up to the starry sky.

Then, stumbling on, I forward fled

And pelted down the stony street,

In constant fear that once again

The mist would grasp and mesh my feet.

Across the threshold of my home

I hurtled like a river's tide.

A match I struck, a candle lit,

And stood within its light and sighed.

Then from without my sturdy house

There came an answ'ring sigh, as though

The mist was saying: "Just this once,

O fated man, I let you go."

T. G. 4/10/22