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.