deepundergroundpoetry.com
Pure Blood (I)
It is not a secret, that my family has a long line of wizards and witches. It is not a secret - at least to me. As far as they are concerned, they are all normal folks.
Those that dream and sleep,,,
Indeed they do sleep, a magical dream, full of spells and enchantments, most of which they're not even aware of. The most powerful magic is hidden in the most (extra)ordinary things. A candle can be the Lamp of Avalon if one wishes it to be so. A knife can cut through the most hardest of strings, and a cup can bare the Whole World or Waste. Some of us, rare ones, know that a pill can contain whole ideas and cosmae, and that travelling between the worlds was a matter of a word and lenses particularly fashioned for the purpose of movement through diversity of nature.
A smart man once said "Magic blooms only in rare souls… Still, we must skulk in the shadows."
Indeed, it does bloom in only the most flamboyant beings and spurs only in the worthy ones. Sometimes magic can hold back for generations; cooking, boiling, sleeping and unconsciously exploring, with only a few windows of brisk clarity and spark only to go deeper and deeper into the spell. Once ready, it wakes up and starts to grow. It starts to catch up with itself and is the embodiment of the most purest of elements. It can hold a thousand lights and illuminate eons of oblivion. It breathes magic, It drinks magic.
He lives magic. He makes experience happen or disappear.
He loathes the Gray Faced Fools who preach fear and adores the progress that spouts from suppression.
The words he utters are always embroidered with skill, and the steps he makes are never the same.
His only passion is to share, and to give, is the most greatest gift in existence.
At least for him.
As for each its pole, there are the ones who take. They are not even aware of the value that they take, yet they like to pretend that they are good in judging
...
the value.
They prey on spectrals without knowing their origin or their worth.
They are the Hanged Man in Tarot and they are the ones who think they posses.
To some degree, with special focals, it can be perceived as such, but I'd advise the reader, should he find such binoculars on his person, to immediately throw them away, as the next lines will be useless and invisible to him.
Those that dream and sleep,,,
Indeed they do sleep, a magical dream, full of spells and enchantments, most of which they're not even aware of. The most powerful magic is hidden in the most (extra)ordinary things. A candle can be the Lamp of Avalon if one wishes it to be so. A knife can cut through the most hardest of strings, and a cup can bare the Whole World or Waste. Some of us, rare ones, know that a pill can contain whole ideas and cosmae, and that travelling between the worlds was a matter of a word and lenses particularly fashioned for the purpose of movement through diversity of nature.
A smart man once said "Magic blooms only in rare souls… Still, we must skulk in the shadows."
Indeed, it does bloom in only the most flamboyant beings and spurs only in the worthy ones. Sometimes magic can hold back for generations; cooking, boiling, sleeping and unconsciously exploring, with only a few windows of brisk clarity and spark only to go deeper and deeper into the spell. Once ready, it wakes up and starts to grow. It starts to catch up with itself and is the embodiment of the most purest of elements. It can hold a thousand lights and illuminate eons of oblivion. It breathes magic, It drinks magic.
He lives magic. He makes experience happen or disappear.
He loathes the Gray Faced Fools who preach fear and adores the progress that spouts from suppression.
The words he utters are always embroidered with skill, and the steps he makes are never the same.
His only passion is to share, and to give, is the most greatest gift in existence.
At least for him.
As for each its pole, there are the ones who take. They are not even aware of the value that they take, yet they like to pretend that they are good in judging
...
the value.
They prey on spectrals without knowing their origin or their worth.
They are the Hanged Man in Tarot and they are the ones who think they posses.
To some degree, with special focals, it can be perceived as such, but I'd advise the reader, should he find such binoculars on his person, to immediately throw them away, as the next lines will be useless and invisible to him.
Published 10th Apr 2020
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