Ian Byrd

Poem: Magician

8 October 2018

with my bare hands
I turn smoke into pleasure.
under the weather, washing distress
off my dry face.


where there's smoke, there's fire.
as the flames reach higher, and higher,
it becomes more obvious
how short I actually am.

push the lever

or be pulling strings
as they set ablaze.
to the woes and flings,
to the saving grace.