Magic! - Hissed The Little Demons

Kingdom Crasher

Little demon;

small one loitering in thatside alley,

waiting for the merry makers to trip and fall.

Only a second,

and your toxic fingerprints cover all their pies.

Crushed pastry,

you lick the berry juice off and laugh.

This is your hobby, your dream, your job;

is that glee you feel

watching the vulnerable suffer?

Wrapped in self-congratulation,

you do not notice the union they’ve formed,

spying on you,

marking your movements,

tracking your trail.

They are the ones who will see to it

thatyoufail.

Warning: they have photographic evidence.

Patchwork

It’s said that every seven years, each cell in our body mutates.

We shed who we were,

take on new thread to spin into suits of experiences

and timid goals.

We can’t lose our previous selves completely.

At a deep, stubborn level,our essence never morphs.

It lies in wait, gathering parts it likes

and casting aside those it doesn’t.

Eventually,

when the time comes to accept our truest nature,

we can be as comfortable in our own skin

as we were

before the influence of others took hold.

We are a patchwork of our lives, well-worn in places,

freshlydarned in others;

oftenoddly put together.

But we are human. We are flawed.

And that’s what makes us.

Set Sail

The jewel-glint ocean

speaks to us, enthrals with its tales of new land.

Forces (suckers? hooks? claws?)

latch onto our humble raft, slash its ropes;

we tumble away.

Appealing to the horizon,

we paddle in place,eager for aid.

Hands of salt sparkles greet us,

and sign out the water’s thrum.

It sings, ‘The claws that once gripped you

have become cracked and dry,

brittle enough to break at a single touch.’

The debris of our raft is returned;

we rebuild,

shaping logs into strong, contoured planks:

a boat that can withstand anything.

Now, our choices are our own.

Onward We Go

Green; the smell of pine, as we tread needles into the ground. A stroll about the forest residing on the year’s edge. New foliage can be seen over the way, only the trickle of an old river keeping it separate. In a few hours, the trickle will stop, and the seedlings of trees will shoot up into saplings, in a whoosh of breath, colour and cheer. We will step together, onto the fresh forest floor, ready to take in its delights and deflect any terrors it holds.