“There are two worlds of magic. One is the glittering domain of the illusionist. The other is a secret place, where magic is a terrifying reality. Here, men have the power of demons. And Death itself is an illusion.”

~ from “Lord of Illusions” by Clive Barker

You stand at the edge and look exactly where you have been warned not to 
straight down
and as the vertigo grabs you in a too tight embrace
you understand why people avoid gazing into the face of the gorgon
why they place such desperate faith in silver and painted eyes
why they keep their closet doors tight shut and their feet tucked under the blanket
because for magic to be mastered
it first must be faced
 all the layers of the universe demand order
miss a step
miss a line
and the waiting ones who circle without ceasing
who exult in a door freshly made in the underbelly of reality
will swarm, pressing until it bulges like a bot fly ready to emerge
until the borders grow thin enough to tear…
You stand shuddering at the crossroad made visible for a single flicker
Sleight of hand and coins and rabbits 
are the tawdry bastard children of the true
the deep binding magic
while illusion wavers siren-like in front of you
the step you need to take is a small thing
but your human spirit shrinks down
as your eyes and the crabbing creeping doubt join together
and you step back
you step back 
and leave it all behind
you turn with purpose and stride away
terror biting at your sensible heels
the spell unbroken, untried
you settle for the safe and the sane
and the trifling…
Pages turn and later in a last lucid moment you grasp at a fluttering thread
a tattered corner of a dream, a fragment, a memory
and wish you’d had the strength
the faith
to willingly take that step, that small thing,
 so long ago
as time slows to a trickle and the sound of wings grows louder 
a different type of magic approaches swiftly
one which does not require your acquiescence, your discipline
or permission
the final mystery
is upon you
now you must take that step
one step
and cross the borders.

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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