We who tread through endless night
and know the secrets of the earth,
we who bear the spirit light
and hold the threads of death and birth.
We who’ve touched the untold planes
and sang the songs of gods undone,
we who’ve mastered wind and rain
and forged great power from the sun.
We who conjure back from bleak
ancient hymns both blessed and tragic,
we who never cease to seek —
we who practice and preach magic.
© 2015 Stellular Scribe
Wings are hard to come by
in a world where having two feet
planted firmly on the ground
is considered ‘customary’.
Flying is frowned upon,
especially when publicly
spreading your fiberglass wings
in defiance of ‘societal conventions’.
Magic is made monstrous
in a time when casting spells
will get you no more than a funny look
and piece of concerned advice.
Wings will weigh you down
in a sky that spits acid rain,
for flying isn’t safe nowadays,
since magic is misliked.
Stellular Scribe 