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The Sorcerer

Joshua Kight 6 years ago

The Sorcerer

There he stood

God’s own lost soul

As if already dead

To every meaningful passion

He ever had

Yet chanting

He Carries forward

Even after a surrender to suffering

Had broken glass

And stilled the current

That runs under

This scarecrow.

I am gutted like a trout

Headless on the cleaning table

Vitals thrown to the gulls.

In the tidal pool

Swirling at his feet

The bugs breed

In the broken ribs

Of a star

Leaking juices that sizzle

As they touch down.

My insides are out

So that everyone can see

The storms in me.

Debussy is the only cure

Magically cooling the brain

With creamy nocturnes

Under evening’s copper

Bottomed clouds.

My Scales drop to the depths

Of the James River

My once beautiful armor

Alternately flashing in the mud.

Find your way

To a quiet cafe.

It is an act of mundane sorcery

To be in compassion’s quiet cove.

Forgiving the living

Is a kind of immortality.

Joshua Kight 7/1/18


Feature photo – Thomas R. Fletcher

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