Weirdmagic

The book sat alone

Dusty and forgotten

With bleached spine made of bone

And the title:

Wierdmagic.

 

A book of spells is not too rare

Nor are mages of my skill

But how will my humble powers fare

When working with

 Weirdmagic

 

I closed my outer eye to read

The tome I gingerly held

The incantations began to feed

My hunger for

Weirdmagic

My trembling lips moved quickly

My voice was soft and sure

My body, pale and sickly

Now glowing with

Weirdmagic

Suddenly

Violently

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

Weirdmagic.

(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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