deepundergroundpoetry.com
Enshrouded
- Enshrouded -
Part One: Alien Things
In fog enshrouding like a cloth fit for some burial…
The town I walked through was caught in the mists.
White and gray the sky, with shadows most surreal,
The air thick with cold, as if by winter itself kissed!
Was this the same place I called home for so long?
And still I dwell here; still do I consider it my abode.
Yet on nights like that, silent without cricket song…
The town is bleak and harsh, the soul itself to erode.
Yet mine is unaffected by the purgatorial bleakness,
For I have walked in Hell and returned quite whole.
A part of my soul dwells eternally in the darkness…
So on nights like that, my nerves remain in control.
The mists are primal, something from another time,
As am I, and so am I not the mists’ own kindred?
The familiar becomes alien, the ordinary sublime…
When, all is by such gray nothingness enshrouded.
And so I walked through the streets, so caressed,
By spectral hands, that it seemed a spiritual realm.
A lesser soul might: have by that been distressed…
But aliens things do not, my senses so overwhelm.
Part Two: Pale Moon
Child of Faerie, child of other worlds, merry meet!
This spoke the mists to me, and I did not hasten…
For night is my time, and its’ shadows I must greet.
I pass a pond, and the waters do strangely glisten,
Through what moonlight can pierce the thick veil…
Of fog and mist, that steams upon the waters near.
No craft would dare at such times to so make sail,
Its’ timbers creaking as the pilot prepares to steer.
Yet do I not hear such sounds, in the far distance?
Nay, it is but the creak of trees upon the shoreline.
The waters are heady with some soggy fragrance,
As above me, in the sky, I see not stars that shine.
Nearby is the cemetery where my mother sleeps…
Dreaming, like the kings and queens of Avalon do.
Whilst in nearby woodlands, a wild thing creeps…
For old animals dwell there, beneath a pale moon.
The company of the dead is all the water can feel,
In certain seasons, when the stars align just right…
The bite of winter to harden their hearts like steel!
But my mother’s heart is soft, even for such night.
Part Three: Journey’s End
I try to forget the dead as I think of life and living,
And I have no wish to be enshrouded any longer.
But the night holds what it can in arms unforgiving,
Even so I break free, and I become far stronger…
For I pierce the fog and mists, with my very spirit.
If only for the moment so that I can find my way…
As my feet quicken in pace the way I must see fit.
I would see the stars but once ere dawn and day!
The night has a will, and fights my effort to resist…
Becoming lost in the gray oblivion, with humanity.
I was ever apart from my peers, so I do persist…
Until at length, I have been granted a tiny victory.
I see the stars as the pale nothingness disperses!
The shroud is lifted, and I can find my way home.
Did I beat death, in a way: coldest, of all curses?
I see the distant mountain, and its’ crags of stone.
The fog drifts away from it, like fingers grasping…
One final time for some prize, which eludes them.
A raven squats upon some power lines, rasping…
As I return whence my journey did this eve stem.
Part One: Alien Things
In fog enshrouding like a cloth fit for some burial…
The town I walked through was caught in the mists.
White and gray the sky, with shadows most surreal,
The air thick with cold, as if by winter itself kissed!
Was this the same place I called home for so long?
And still I dwell here; still do I consider it my abode.
Yet on nights like that, silent without cricket song…
The town is bleak and harsh, the soul itself to erode.
Yet mine is unaffected by the purgatorial bleakness,
For I have walked in Hell and returned quite whole.
A part of my soul dwells eternally in the darkness…
So on nights like that, my nerves remain in control.
The mists are primal, something from another time,
As am I, and so am I not the mists’ own kindred?
The familiar becomes alien, the ordinary sublime…
When, all is by such gray nothingness enshrouded.
And so I walked through the streets, so caressed,
By spectral hands, that it seemed a spiritual realm.
A lesser soul might: have by that been distressed…
But aliens things do not, my senses so overwhelm.
Part Two: Pale Moon
Child of Faerie, child of other worlds, merry meet!
This spoke the mists to me, and I did not hasten…
For night is my time, and its’ shadows I must greet.
I pass a pond, and the waters do strangely glisten,
Through what moonlight can pierce the thick veil…
Of fog and mist, that steams upon the waters near.
No craft would dare at such times to so make sail,
Its’ timbers creaking as the pilot prepares to steer.
Yet do I not hear such sounds, in the far distance?
Nay, it is but the creak of trees upon the shoreline.
The waters are heady with some soggy fragrance,
As above me, in the sky, I see not stars that shine.
Nearby is the cemetery where my mother sleeps…
Dreaming, like the kings and queens of Avalon do.
Whilst in nearby woodlands, a wild thing creeps…
For old animals dwell there, beneath a pale moon.
The company of the dead is all the water can feel,
In certain seasons, when the stars align just right…
The bite of winter to harden their hearts like steel!
But my mother’s heart is soft, even for such night.
Part Three: Journey’s End
I try to forget the dead as I think of life and living,
And I have no wish to be enshrouded any longer.
But the night holds what it can in arms unforgiving,
Even so I break free, and I become far stronger…
For I pierce the fog and mists, with my very spirit.
If only for the moment so that I can find my way…
As my feet quicken in pace the way I must see fit.
I would see the stars but once ere dawn and day!
The night has a will, and fights my effort to resist…
Becoming lost in the gray oblivion, with humanity.
I was ever apart from my peers, so I do persist…
Until at length, I have been granted a tiny victory.
I see the stars as the pale nothingness disperses!
The shroud is lifted, and I can find my way home.
Did I beat death, in a way: coldest, of all curses?
I see the distant mountain, and its’ crags of stone.
The fog drifts away from it, like fingers grasping…
One final time for some prize, which eludes them.
A raven squats upon some power lines, rasping…
As I return whence my journey did this eve stem.
Published 6th Dec 2012
| Edited 9th Jul 2013
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 1
reading list entries 0
comments 2
reads 750
Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.
Anonymous
6th Dec 2012 6:42pm
A very beautifully written piece by your pen, Jessica! Yes, sometimes we meet death and beat it, in our life we have rebirths too.
I see this as a rebirth poem.
Much enjoyed
I see this as a rebirth poem.
Much enjoyed
I am glad you enjoyed it, Mourganna my dear friend! Sometimes, in certain seasons, small New England towns can have an almost haunted quality to them. Something about the air when the fog and the mist rolls in, in those times when it can... it brings to mind death and rebirth and of course life too. It is part of the otherworldly beauty of such seasons as autumn and winter, and all of that and more was what I had in mind when I was writing this poem. For a similar poem, but one involving a dream I had, check out "The Crimson Forest". You'll find it a fascinating read, though more esoteric in subject matter than this one.
