Door to midnight, the Elf-iant strikes

Door to midnight, the Elf-iant strikes (to be renamed?)

Pound upon the midnight soul,

Torrents of larva etched paths, flow.

Moonshine of deceit and lies carved in,

Scorch and drown my floating heart, sink.

Paradise were but a worm-eaten door,

Locks and keys smothered by non-descript walls.

Creepers scale the hidden door crevice,

Leaving a mouse-hole size of a door unframed.

Hark! Alack, but what is it that shakes?

The ground, the sky, the creepers falling…like the peeling wallpapers of The Gutters, though much at an unprecedented rate. 

Indeed, our poet was alarmed, but his innate curiosity had not yet been displaced by the fear of the almighty plummeting from the heights. It had only just been enough to rouse him from his reverie, where he was searching for his something in life, the ‘click’ that turns on the faucet in his pen, where ink flows free like the burning, unstoppable larva. 

But after finding his way around the Labyrinth, he was met with a cul de sac, to which there’s no ways of turning back but to go forward, but you see, the door, the dome-shaped piece of a wooden plank has no start, no end to it, nor is there any avenues that suggest a feasible way of cranking one’s way in with a crowbar or a skeleton key. 

Our poet was fumed, for he meant for his mazes to be designed in a way that he could solve them and find his ‘switch’ in the end, but this one presented itself in the form of a block—writer’s block! This was the worst thing that could happen to a writer seeking solace from his afternoon dreams and devils come knocking after him instead. 

And at that very magical moment, the ‘door’ rocked violently, with its infernal vines and creepers hanging over the points of detachment, cascading from the skies, like a many-headed Medusa shaking its locks furiously at an intruder before her supper… 

Just at the moment where the door looked as if it were going to cave in, out from it emerged an elfin-like creature, uncertain he was, for sure, for this one’s too large even for an over-sized elf and yet too delicate for a giant—a gentle giant maybe, but who knows. 

And at that very instant, our poet was saved the trouble of judgment—a trial he religiously imposes on every being, animate or inanimate as a handy mental portfolio, but this one seemed to judge him more than the supposed vice versa and all he could do is to follow his scrutiny up and down with the giant on his torn khakis and washed-out muslin. 

“Evening Mr. Daves, or would you rather be addressed as Thomas? Tell me, what brings you here at this odd hour of the day?” 

Tom never felt so much conceded like in Jack and the Beanstalk before and was glad that the first question covered partially the necessity of addressing the second one. 

“The latter, sir,” he uttered meekly, “and how may I address you sir?” he treaded upon his words like of a crippled in a minefield.  

Even when bearing with a forced poker face, he could not help subduing the horror and awe when the giant pronounced his name before him and his spontaneity in letting the door open when Tom had been sure that his stealthy thread along with his silent loafers could compete with a feline’s. 

Even with such a bulk, the giant moved with a lithe and grace of an elf and yet equipped with him the same air of chivalry and suaveness of a giant— a handsome pairing of nature. 

“Yes Master,” he swerved, avoiding introduction, “what can I do for you?” 

This time, our poet was sufficiently quizzed to bear his innocence of the matter, but again, his innate curiosity has not yet been fed to satisfaction and he decided to play along with the game. After all, the giant seemed friendly and tame… 

Mustering up his courage, he spoke, in an inquiring voice reminiscent of a diner who surrenders the fate of his gastronomy to his cook, “What’s in for today?” 

Alack! Tom had hit the right buttons, or so he thought. 

“Bean sprouts, my dear.” Said the giant. 

Is it him or did he catch a sardonic smile spreading over his cruel lips? 

To be continued…