Grey Magic

When we’re left lim­bo between absolutes and fan­ta­sy, it might be con­fus­ing to know if we ought to ride the streams as they are, or bend the streams to our will.

Note: This is my only poem cur­rent­ly that requires the use of sleight-of-hand coin mag­ic to prop­er­ly por­tray what I mean. 

———————

I like my cof­fee. Not too hot, not too cold, but just right.
I like to wake up, not in the heat of day, not in the chill of night,
But where light is not too harsh, and not too dim,
And where life would love to go out for a swim.
Am I dream­ing? (Pinch cheeks) Or am I awake?
Is our real­i­ty absolute, or what WE choose to make?

At one cor­ner, there are the White Magicians. The behold­ers of Truth,
The pio­neers of rea­son and the curi­ous youth.
We take them for grant­ed, yet they risk their lives
To keep our­selves unhurt, so every­one can sur­vive.
They are Fire-fight­ers. Surgeons. Astronomers.

At the oth­er side, the Black Magicians: The char­la­tans and liars.
Corrupters of desires, like the dev­il con­spires
To con­struct illu­sions that you do not need,
So you can sell your souls to ful­fill their greed.
They are Marketers. Politicians. Cult-lead­ers.

When you look deep beneath that façade,
It’s hard to tell between the right­eous and the fraud.
The White Magicians know all, but they can­not enthrall.
So, the Black Magicians tempt us into the dark. And we fall!
In the light we’re lame, in the dark we’re blind,
But, it’s in the Grey that every­thing begins to unwind.

In that gra­di­ent between Heaven and Hell,
Between Black and White, The Grey Magicians dwell,
And here, in spec­tral winds, silent­ly stole
The Artists, The Poets, and my own soul.

When I lie, it’s just to make you laugh and cry,
Not to hurt you, but to leave you stronger by and by.
I soothe you, deceive you, so you can face the truth.
I give you hope, to unlock your for­bid­den youth.
So let me invite you. Let me delight you.
I won’t take you for a fool, nor will I bite you.
I don’t claim to be more than all that you adore,
But I can take your imag­i­na­tion where you’ve nev­er been before!

To a place that’s not too real, not quite a dream.
Where the child in you can sail the uncer­tain streams,
Where the Strange is Familiar, and the Familiar is Strange,
Where word upon word upon word is change.
Now you might be skep­ti­cal if such a place exists.
Ah! But my friends, we’re already HERE! You see…

We were made by the Stars. Now we drift on a rock
That nur­tures us till we are wise enough to knock
The doors of heav­ens, and we’ll know from afar
We are MADE in the IMAGE of all that’s bizarre:
We are not too real, and not too fake.
We are made. And yet our­selves we make.
For every word and deed that we per­form,
It is our­selves that we trans­form.
The cit­i­zens of dark­ness; the chil­dren of light.
Manifesting visions, mak­ing dreams alight.
Making mir­a­cles on mir­a­cles, no gim­micks required.
Because Magic is revealed in the heart inspired.

Between Heaven and Hell, our hearts rebel.
The Grey magi­cian always has a sto­ry to tell,
From the streams of dreams, you can hear him call.
That… No mat­ter who you are, or how small,
Whatever you imag­ine can be made real.
‘Coz in the heart of Grey lies human ide­al.

0 Comments

Leave a Reply

%d bloggers like this: