be prepared for the magical mystification of the poet illiterate

be dazzled as he turns victory to defeat

spins interlocking rings of indecisive dismay into a solid band of loss

oooh and ahhh as he pulls depression from his hat and paints a scenic vista of the hell in his mind

his unfaithful assistant saws his heart in half and tosses him to the side

is it an illusion or are the scars that line his arms desperate pleas for help

no one knows

magic

what tricks are up his sleeve

none

he isn’t a magician at all

nor a poet

just a sad man who stumbled upon the stage and spilled his guts to an uncaring crowd

pathetic bastard

he doesn’t realize there is no crowd at all

he is in front of the mirror crying and begging for release

the jeers are his own

his ripped shirt and sagging boxers a makeshift tuxedo

his assistant just a cobweb draped memory of before the tumultuous decline

his words as bereft of meaning as his mind is of comfort

he bows to no one and turns off the light and returns to bed to wish for a better day