Wizard & Dragon

Catapulting myself back to that long walk down Americana drive
I used to partake of every day
on my way home from school,

where the heaviness of the air seemed to become the blood inside my body
thickening to a likeness of cement
with each footstep toward the front door of our trailer,

I’m reminded of that gray-bearded Merlin fellow,
who’s standing at the top of a mountain
and shooting fireballs out of his fists
at this dragon that’s somehow magically part of him,

every fistful of fire landed on scale equivalent to a year off of his life span,

and how, in one lightning bolt of glory,
both wizard and dragon find themselves plummeting
toward the earth from which they were cast,

much like the way that,
when the world seems to turn its back on me,
the earth inside me sort of magically opens up beneath my hands,

and, like the wizard and dragon,
I find myself returning to the only mother I can count on
always being there to preserve what ancient sense of self remains,

not for any subterranean reason I can think of
but simply for the sole purpose of getting a kick out of putting an end to things,
knowing things never stay ended for long,

until I once again feel the air calling me out of my waiting
and into this hunger I have for making nothing happen at the hardest cost.