Only the dead work with magic

only the dead work with magic
screams of forgetfulness and hate
give me the world, give me the pain
somewhere outside, somewhere within

when you are afraid to be blown away
upon opening the door
for the pizza guy,
you lose more of what matters,
blue tendrils of fire spiraling away
so few try to make amends

sure there are answers, sure there is hope
but you need to look, look, look
with our attention span so thin these days
we may never see, may not want to see
instead play with our toys and kink our necks
into the screens, the technology, the long, spiraling choice
that has done more to destroy than build
has hidden from us our poetry, and in its secrets
has destroyed our myths

no mystery here . . .
in our eagerness to know
we would abolish magic
become disconnected
full with sorrow,
and few ways to express it

it is growing, looming, angry,
the screaming dead, the cheated . . .
they work their pain
try to forget
we hear them
but do not want to

we have ourselves to think about

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