Is a storm brewing in the south? Breaking over our heads?
Or is the reunion project yet another brief, hot-air front passing?
I’ve been working on my Giles hairstyle;
mannerisms and voice will come from the roots.
Pushing it all back from my intellectual forehead,
the sides and nape are shortly cut.
The top, high and a bit fluffy,
as if scared by its surroundings on the Hellmouth,
shows I spend too much time in dark places.
Hair follicles have been growing in this bland, aimless, stagnant environment,
given succor only in a wizard’s safe harbor of books, old promises,
and ancient magics.
At night I find myself lost in the stacks, waiting.
In the light of day, it’s all a bad dream, sprung to life.
Hope a script is being written, proofed, and re-written;
it’s Bravado’s time to fan Buffy’s vampiric flames
with our, The End Part 2, wit and whimsy.
We’re all grown up to our bones’ apex.
All grown tangled, untangled, and tossed;
our dice, twelve separate sides.
Did we roll the hard seven?
Did we bounce off the table?
Our 2000 casino of fun, a bust,
is long long gone in a far off place.
I see snake eyes staring back at me,
while others see double sixes.
This has prepared me for Giles’ dark-side days,
and the forced detachment of season six.
Draw from the six, Bravado, and the four and the seven.
Who shall lend me their power? Those in a coven?
The world – saved or destroyed – it’s up to you now.
Evil Willow, and the trio of geek, must be stopped! Or supported!
If not, how will the final end be fought?
Our final end must be fought;
if only on paper,
if only on video,
it must be stopped.
It must be completed.