Working Magic

Trying to focus,

guide my hand

to hit this target,

to reach out and

affect some change,


the chaos of the miasma,

become an ordered thing.


Playing games

with my own sanity.

I am,

stepping past my former frailty.

I am,

supported by a sort of frame.

I am,

surrounded by eternal flames.


I am,

no longer waiting for the high

to feel the rush,

as I touch the sky.

I have this

at my fingertips

and before my eyes.


I am

not going to lie,

I’m so surprised

that it works

just like they said it did.


I’m doing nothing new,

just placing my feet

one by one

on the path that I was meant

to walk down.


Trying to focus,

trying to aim.

My life is a rifle,

potential in things.

Thoughts are the action,

triggered by name.

Words are like bullets,

killing the same.


There’s got to be

some reason

we don’t see.

We’re plain as day,


in the usual.

I can see it on your face.

I have felt it on my own,

until I held onto the fire

and made something

out of nothing.


Working magic takes a while.


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