Like a conjurer, with secrets
Hid inside his spells,
He stirs his hands inside the ocean of her mind.
A ring of swirling ripples at his wrist,
Like golden chains around her neck,
Fade away and die.
His fingers wrap around her thoughts
And squeeze them into images
Of what it was she thought.
Alone and dark beneath the ocean of her being,
Filled with demons,
Grinning bright and leering for an instant.
Her love, in flakes of phosphor,
Glows and fades and burns again,
Like dashing sparks on cool wet grass.
Her soul, sweet drink,
A mixture of the stars,
Is swallowed by confusion into nothingness.
“What is not, could never be, and never was,” he chants.
And there it is, forever to eternity,
This endless ripple of existence,
Alive by incantation.
The water parts,
And love cascades, like golden palms,
Adrift above a desert sand of jewellery.
An open treasure box of bright and priceless crystals,
Lighting all the universe;
A magic flare of consciousness,
Blinding for a second, all that see.
The wizard’s spell is just a word.
Her love a fingerprint of thought,
Now damp and shining,
As he shakes the sea-scales of her from his hands.
