Magic

Poem

Magic

You are under my skin

like a drug

I should not have taken.

I could not heed the warnings,

there were none, and

it’s too good to refuse.

 

Once inside, it is warm

and gentle and loving

then exciting and euphoric.

But the blackness of depression comes

with the desperate need

to understand.

It hurts my heart

and moistens my eyes

and cannot be removed.

 

How long before

this habit destroys me?

Would withdrawal do just as well?

And yet if I do not,

I remain in this unspace,

this magic and magicless place

between two worlds.

 

When my head speaks I see

you should be little more than

a light, laughter filled interlude

and I should walk away

as I would a funfair ride

having spent my entrance fee.

 

But I cannot.

Is that because I am weak

or do I have reason to wait

for our minds to click together

like a jigsaw that pictures

a clichéd castle in the clouds? 

Michael R Chapman
~ master of none ~