The Magician


the magician plays with cards and doves showcasing the trifles
pretty baubles
silken scarves
a darker light hidden under the tinkling applause
capering and grinning
a shade, a gloomy movement in the corner overlooked by simple minds whose grasp of magic is a carapace
a blurred congeal
bits of rumor and superstition knitted together and held vaguely
by an adoring crowd determined to be dazzled
if for just a moment
he blinds them with cheap thrills and retires
bowing gracefully
returning to the otherworld, the other plane
housed within a battered wagon
tapestries ripple and billow in an unblown wind
infinite are the aspects, the semblance of an earthly magician
as he continues the transformation
an ageless journeyman
drinking in the adulation of the simple
like potent nectar
honey sweet
and all the sweeter for being stolen unaware


About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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