The Magician


His countenance betrays nothing.

His eyes focused and unyielding.

His hands flutter, like wings of a bird.

Disappearing and reappearing with languid precision.

His hair leonine; wild and untamed.

He takes a goblet, turning water into wine.

He takes his staff and tosses it into the air.

And at its zenith, transforms it into a mighty sword.

With a deft hand, the Magician

Tears it from its impending descent.

He takes the blade and cuts through the air

In a big arc around him.  Encircling himself.

His eyes now ablaze with fervent vigor;

Propelled by some cosmic force.

He sweeps the blade faster and faster

Around him, until it almost appears

As though he cut through the very fabric of time.

And a circle of white light surrounds him.

Vitruvian in all his splendor, he spreads

His limbs out as if he were spokes in a wheel.

Slowly he begins to turn inside the circle of light,

Spinning faster and faster with hellish speed,

Until a radiant flash bursts into a million stars.

As above, so below.

As it is on earth, so it is in heaven.

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