wobbling through the cross road

There was a fork in the road,

a liminal place,

guarded by three witches holding silver plates.

On one sat a bird,

another held a golden trumpet.

The last held the hand,

of a small elven man,

with pointed ears and a frozen grin.

The witches said if you’re afraid to fly

or make noise like the trumpet and bird,

a fate like the elf’s may befall you.

All of sudden,

a car pulled up in the middle of a road that’s neither

here

or

there.

A strange in between land that smelt of erotic juices.

The driver a devilish handsome man.

or perhaps a wolf?

Through the fog it was hard to tell.

The witches warned you not to get in.

Ride their broomsticks instead.

But you are young,

and somethings must be learnt the hard way.


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