Fantasy, Poetry, Writing

Weirder Than Fiction

It was the eagerness with which he led the large pageant
The stroll to death was miles longer and moons away
Sheer glee turned his veins blue
A final day gloom
It was the scared girl who looked below her bed every night
And then malicious laughter poured from her lips
She crawled below it, waiting for night to fall and young Ted come to bed
It was the man who I encountered
Whilst ambling down public street
Kept whispering Sherlock under his breath
Yes, fiction is ingenious
But imagination is infectious

He shoved them off. No more of this, he thought angrily and eased himself from the load. Gory monsters and faceless enemies didn’t bother him, no not even those cold gusts on bleak days.


Let them stare, he thought. All of us have our own demons.


The pageant disassembled.

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