A Short Letter Cleverly Disguised as Poetry

Publicity still of the Buffy cast

Image provided by *The Internets*

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!
With weapons?
With words?
With love?

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.

@kshawnedgar

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2 thoughts on “A Short Letter Cleverly Disguised as Poetry

  1. Simply wanted you to know that I grazed your blog lightly just now. I wish I had hours to dive into your writings. I am sure I will have plenty more to bloat your ego…..shortly. Unfortunatly, time doesn’t “grow on trees”.

    Like

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