Tall Tales
Surely, Sherlock was rooted in the home.
But his ruby slippers
Had worn-out souls
So the jaded detective
Followed Fitzgerald and the lost generation.
But somewhere in between chapters
And the thicket of printed syllables,
He took a wrong turn
And found himself in neverland.
The lost generation
Morphed into barbaric
Lost boys
And though the Englishman
Aged like the mulberry wine
Drowning his consciousness,
Literature never grew up.
And so,
The stories remained:
Timeless.
While in the lagoon
Of a dead poet’s society,
The poems still exhale.
Engulfed pages of pulp fiction,
The rind,
Binding the vitamins of knowledge
To the seeds of ruminations,
Still blossom, fruitfully.
And though Holmes’ words now crawl,
Pathetically,
From his tongue--
Their decibels still caress my skin.
Insignificant filaments
Stand erect
Upon my forearm.
As misinterpreted anthologies
Hold their compasses to the North Star,
Their melancholy is lifted,
And literature can be reborn--
Free.
Tonight,
Sherlock lights his briar pipe,
And gives one last request.
To Peter Pan,
The feeble man purses his lips:
Read me a bedtime story.
And with that,
The mystery is dead.
Damned to eternal sleep.
The last page,
Still yet to turn.
Copyright © Sydney Melocowsky | Year Posted 2016
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