Writing Prompt #139 “The Magician”

The Magician

Mark Stavish

Overflowing with wreaths of smoke

I am a heated pot, gurgling, impatient.

The words I love, the gift that I

do not own but borrow though the timing

does not often suit me.

Some things must be done

and no amount of even ifs will steady

the hand once the need strips

those skulking sheets their innocence.

I am uncommon, a candle

burning in its own juices,

once untenanted, I burn,

spectral and appetent.

The things I know shame me.

My great and ghastly divots,

my scars wet as the day

they were cast. I am pitiful,

miserable, I bereave myself,

offal cast as pearls, heart

a stalk of weather-hardened barely.