Friday, 13 March 2015
You were my favorite writer, more than Gaiman,
More than Moore, or even J.R.R. Tolkien.
You taught me that fantasy need not be a stuffy bore,.
You taught me that reading was not really a chore.
The Discworld was a living, breathing world of wonder,
That tore my perception of fantasy worlds asunder.
It started out oh so primitive and illogical,
But evolved yearly into something modern and magical.
Your characters were flawed, but hardly feeble,
You made me want to be a witch (or a Nac Mac Feegle)
You did not make jokes for the sake of being funny,
For you, everything was relevant to the story.
From the most minute detail to the tiniest of beings,
Everything was connected in your large scheme of things.
Your books were the colour of magic that tripped the light fantastic.
The world you built was fertile, and was carried upon a turtle,
Your witches were funny, your wizards were knobby,
Your Watchmen picked fights to champion Equal Rites,
Your Death was a skeleton who played with a kitten,
Who sighed a big sigh and said to you, sir,
“AT LAST, SIR TERRY, WE MUST WALK TOGETHER.".
So goodbye, Sir Terry Pratchett, and rest in peace.
Know that you will truly, utterly, and forever be missed.