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Our hero’s journey:
Through the tendril woven plane that hums at night, and keeps him up late.
Down the howling hollow cobble path - they say it’s haunted at night.
Gulp the fog, listen for his laugh, then it’s gone.
Cross the mossy tree trunk,
- Don’t look down –
Where the rabbit hole falls to abyss.
Where the shoots burst into flames,
Licking at wounds or offering a kiss.
I revel in delusions of swords across my back; lapses of time; superimposing.
Why can’t you be part of my fiction too?
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