The Candles flickered and goodness spilled,
the cake was cut and the air thrilled.
Fourteen friends for a fourteenth year,
an evening of joy or so it appears.
I held my ice cream, spoon in hand,
A piece of biscuit in mouth and nodding to a sneaky prank.
A chill crawled up where I stood.
My head spun, stomach weak,
the air too heavy, my pulse too meek.
Stepping out, I caught my breath,
stars hung still, frost like death.
Then fluttering past my feet,
a paper airplane, folded neat.
I bent down, hands too cold,
Words scrawled sharp, ink too bold.
"Not all who came are here for fun, watch the food, don’t trust anyone."
A shiver ran across my spine,
was this a joke? A twisted sign?
Inside, the party roared,
but something felt too forced.
The biscuit seller had eyes too dim,
smiling wide, hands too slim.
He looked ghostly or maybe he’s feeble.
I watched him weave between the crowd,
his tray too full, the guests too proud.
I warned them all, my voice sincere,
but laughter drowned my fear.
"You’re paranoid, just enjoy the night."
"Loosen up, the snacks taste right!"
I called my brother—"Pick me up."
Trust unraveling, my mind stuck.
I slid into the backseat, eyes too tight,
but darkness pulled me into night.
The morning hit—my head too slow,
blurred visions, whispers low.
Was it the biscuit? Was I right?
Poet of the Winter · page 44 · Hear it on the channel ↗
Commentary
This poem is an eerie, suspenseful exploration of trust, danger, and the deceptive nature of appearances. It seamlessly blends a festive winter gathering with creeping tension, building toward an unsettling revelation. The story-like structure makes it feel cinematic, moving from excitement to uncertainty, and finally, to a chilling question that lingers beyond the final lines.
The poem begins in a scene full of warmth—candles flicker, cake is cut, and a joyful crowd of fourteen friends celebrating a birthday. The speaker, indulging in ice cream and biscuits, participates in the lively atmosphere.
However, a sudden shift occurs—his body reacts strangely, weakness creeping in. He steps outside for fresh air, only to find an unexpected message delivered via a paper airplane. The inked warning is clear: "Not all who came are here for fun, watch the food, don’t trust anyone." The paranoia settles in, but uncertainty keeps the speaker questioning—was this a prank, or something deeper? Inside, the party feels off, with forced cheer masking something sinister. His attention shifts to the biscuit seller, whose dim eyes and unnaturally thin hands spark suspicion. He moves through the crowd, offering snacks, while guests remain obliviously delighted. The speaker tries to warn them, but his fears are dismissed as paranoia. Frustrated and uneasy, he calls his brother to take him home. Once in the backseat, darkness overtakes him, leaving the reader with the chilling realization—had he already consumed the tainted food? Did he escape in time, or was it too late? The morning comes, but something is still wrong.