Waxing Lyrical

Waxing Lyrical

People queued in line for the blood moon. Among them, a paper reporter who lost his superpowers due to a surge in opinion columns. He couldn't fully figure out what happened to good old walls in dingy rooms, sporting obsessions unframed in passe-partout. And so, there he was. As always, belief lies at the extremity of hope, he toyed with an opening. There could be an altar right there, and one by one they'd go up the stairs in meandering song. Nothing doing. Still, everybody could turn into pumpkins. The promised moon presided red to no effect but gawking and finger-pointing, as the beastly ennui slouched towards tomorrow.