Poetry

Spooktown, 5 (279.)

As I get older, I
find that happy tears fall easier,
and it’s a strange feeling.
To say the least.
When I really like a song,
or a story on the internet
hits me the right way,
or a book weaves its threads just right,
my eyes get misty
and I wet the cloth of my face.
Moments ago, I read about a young man
who created replicas of items
from a video game,
then placed those replicas
in the real-world counterparts
to the video game’s locations.
Slow down, nerd, I can hear some folks saying.
Look, he just really enjoys the game.
And I remember really enjoying the same game.
So as I scrolled through his story,
and marveled at his dedication,
my eyes got misty.
Not that I was sad –
I was glad, and proud, and impressed.
People can do really cool things,
when they want to.
Such willpower, such dedication,
it’s moving.
I see the stuff of souls
stretch and fill the void.
It is a little legend.
It is enough.

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