No magic
There is no magic in this world.
No magical letter shall arrive
to grant us freedom from
the cupboard under the stairs and
the tyrants who put us there.
No wizard shall scratch our
door with his mischievous staff
and pack us off on unwilling on an adventure
that will draw forth our hidden courage.
No peddler shall sell us a flying horse
made of the darkest ebony
to exile us away to mystic lands
and there to find love and friendship.
No letters, no wizards, no winged horses
in our lives of facts, laws, and immovable rules
where trees don’t walk
beasts don’t talk
and we don’t fly.
Except
when we close our eyes
and dream some dreams
of magic missives that brings us freedom,
of wily wizards that thrust us into danger,
of soaring steeds that lead us to destiny
and thence we fly from life to hope
and back again;
birds that fly from the nest to the sky
and back again.
There is no magic in this world
but in the void of the nests of our minds.
The bird with its hollow bones
where will it fly if not
in the unreachable sky?
