The Magician Falls (Poem)

Startled at the magician's response,
the little boy went wide-eyed with sadness,
for he had never seen what a crushed dream looks like,
nor tasted the flavor of failure.

The magician sat for a still moment,
swirling his crooked fingers around the gutter's eddies,
and picking idly at a string dangling from his sleeve.
With no warning he lashed out at the boy,
grabbing him around his neck,
curling a vicious hand until his fingers met in the back.
Standing slowly up, ram-rod tall,
still holding the boy dangling from his hand,
the magician began to smile,
and his eyes turned to dark pools of honey.

"I have never lost my hatred," he hissed,
as his fingers clenched tighter around fading innocence.
His broken-wire hair caught in a muddy wind,
that whistled as it ran up his sleeves and through a myriad of pockets.
Carefully he began to walk, holding the boy aloft,
while the boy's eyes stared, seeing no pain,
watching as grayness crept down the street.

A passing movement paused the magician's steps,
and he glanced down to see that in his hurry,
he had let his hat slip away with the swiftly running gutter,
now raven black in color, filled with frustration.
Looking back at the boy in terror,
he discovered he held only a book,
a collection of poems written by a boy long since forgotten,
soaked in the same drizzle carrying his hat around a corner and out of sight.