The book sat alone

Dusty and forgotten

With bleached spine made of bone

And the title:



A book of spells is not too rare

Nor are mages of my skill

But how will my humble powers fare

When working with



I closed my outer eye to read

The tome I gingerly held

The incantations began to feed

My hunger for


My trembling lips moved quickly

My voice was soft and sure

My body, pale and sickly

Now glowing with




A purple bear

A diving suit

A napkin made of gold

Three pens made of fruit and lead

Orange cheese growing on mold

A bleeding chair

A melting flute

My body growing cold

I could never hope to handle


(Author's note: for some reason the last bit of the poem won't format properly. Sorry bout that :P)

The End

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