Maybe it's Lady Fortune, with Her sickle.
Maybe it's Death, come back for more tea, and for the fickle-
minded, who do not accept Their presence at parties.
I've always been okay with Them. Even Death needs to eat.
And so it's not Them either.
Maybe it's Edwin, come back to look for his houseplants.
Maybe it's just pure, plain and simple
sorcery.
You should actually call it projection, plain and simple
but I don't care.
I know you want to condition me
into being afraid of what isn't there.
So be it; let's call it what it is.
Magic.
Witchcraft.
A sense of the spirits
that surely must still flit among us,
looking for Edwin's fucking houseplants
and the vestigial remnants
of his great-great-great-grandson.
A bit too late;
Titania and Oberon seem to have won.
A very sexy changeling gay Kristang man-woman
now is forever fated to walk among us
so along as someone does enough
to continue to see the sun.
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