The Poet

Paul T

Christmas Eve, 1981 He knew right from the off his new name would bring nothing but trouble. It was bound to lose its initial, almost playful veneer, quickly shifting into some kind of grotesque, seven-letter albatross. He’d be marked for life, his carefully constructed bulwark of faceless mediocrity in ruins. He knew he’d rue the day he ever agreed to write that stupid, bloody poem. Things would never be the same again. And, for once in his life, The Poet was right.

Reads

1

Likes

0

Saves

0

Comments

0