I Want To Be Magic

In the land of hysteria,

The magic is a cocoon,

Built with the incantation,

Like a redoubt at the lagoon.

The magic is not

A complacency.

It is quintessentially

A buoyancy.

The magic is built

With the castles of abstraction.

A long tale of travail

Will carry their construction.

The walls of fantasy

Are built with souvenirs.

The magic is immune to dust,

Hanging intact for years.

Some spaces are

Bereft of musing.

I want to be magic,

To make them amusing.

A cornucopia of letters

Emanates from the wand.

I fondle with words

On a salubrious land.

Some spells are

Reminiscent of heydays.

Some are just

The remnant of the blaze.

Prestidigitating from quill

Are the conjured tricks.

Once the empty folios,

Now the tomes of flicks.

Only the magic can surmount

The nadirs of life.

The runes are a godsend,

When Jinx is rife.

To create the magic,

Solitude is the fulcrum.

I want to be magic,

By cushioning the tantrum.

An ingenious heart,

Brimful of emotion.

A cherubic face,

Envying the magician.

Pursuing since ages,

The elusive pitches.

The door of odeum

Is abounded with stitches.

Although there are chants

Still not legible,

Cast in stone,

The ink is infallible.

Scribbled on the floor

Is charming prose.

Still, there is a void,

And an inevitable throes.

There is blood on swords,

And thorns on roses.

I want to be magic,

For the forlorn proses.

Although the odeum

Is draped in starkness.

The magic will survive,

The aeons of darkness.

The conjuration of prose

Accompanied by puns,

Has a semblance of truth and,

A smattering of shenanigans.

Fragments of broken heart,

And a stigmatized soul.

Hanging on the cliffhanger,

My fate in a crystal ball.

Year of shambolism

Turned into inspiration,

Carved out on the stone,

A finesse of imagination.

Harking back to the

Time of inevitable crisis,

I want to be magic,

Offering a resplendent oasis.