The mist, the mist, the mist.

It comes in rolling banks and torrents.

It is his task to fog up your sight

And cling, like dew droplets on moss,

To your freezing arms as your hair stands on end.

Then comes that dreaded yet sought after deafness.

The suffocating silence where your own labored breath

And your strong, pumping heart beating against your chest,

Determined to pitter-pat until it halts abruptly at the end,

Is the only thing you hear.

The adrenaline starts pumping, and you are chilled to the bone.

So you run, and run, and run, from that

Mist, that mist, that mist; panting heaving, terrified breaths.

But he, that mist, chases after you in those rolling banks of fog,

You are so utterly alone, and no one will hear you when you fall-

A dull thud echoes in the silence.

And you are lying in the damp leaves, and they sink their cold and

Musty cinnamon decay into your marble skin.

Then that mist, that mist, that mist catches up with you.

You breathe it in and succumb to it; you dissolve into it alone.

There is no one to pull you roughly to your feet

And no one to scream for you.

So you go quietly because you know

The mist, the mist, the mist, oh, the mist has won.