wits of a man

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
a poetry about a cold, breezy day outside?

Submitted: November 13, 2014

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Submitted: November 13, 2014



The night was frigid and at its poorest,

But who am I to judge, when I was not the wisest,

A  slight breeze crawled up my spine,

I could taste the wind’s saltiest brine.

My eyes conveyed to an old lodge,

So I can take refuge, from this monstrous botch.

The gut was dim, abhorrent and dingy,

But thank god there is no hole for the breeze to carry.


But what was interesting, that there was a mural,

It was so boundless, that it gave an unsettling moral.

The colors faded, and burdened with marks,

Like it was meant to be destroyed, no needed remarks.

It displayed pictures of a young slender woman and maid,

I wonder who was the artisan that made this eerie portrait.

The face of the woman was covered with graze,

But the maid was gnarly and gave deep piercing evil gaze.


For a moment I thought, I had gone mad,

When I thought the maid turned from wicked to sad.

I blinked my visions, to trust my perception,

I opened my eyes, to found the maid was not in front of the reception.

My face was pale, my hairs were struck,

I pounced up when I heard the lightning struck.

I thought to myself I was delirious,

Maybe the maid was not actually there, no need to conclude something mysterious.


I waited a duration until the weather calmed down,

But the French maid entity made my brain vigorously mount.

The brews were gone, I got ready to abandon,

When I looked at the painting before, to eased my  tension.

My limbs were trembling , as I took a deep stare,

First the maid, now the scrawny  woman wasn’t there.

I turned to leave when voices disturbed me,

saying; “You’re going nowhere, this is the place you’ll ever be.”


I rushed towards the exit when I still had my sane,

Till I dropped down realized my legs were shackled with chains.

I got up apprehended that my costume is now white,

And my hands were completely immovable as it was actually cuff tight.

The lodge was dying into an atrocious looking room,

I was squirming on the floor, demanding release from this horrible doom.

Until I notice on top of the iron door,

A header flaunting; "the mental institution of  schizophrenia & more."

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