Magicless
It's early November '91,
and I quite can't remember,
ever,
feeling this humbled, seeing
Magic stumble,
off his shiny crown,
and the little boy
Who once glared at 32,
fixated by a dribbling
Rhythm, so compulsive,
so majestic,
so unattainable,
by his own standards,
that he had no choice,
but to glare,
It's different now,
A leather cacophony,
dribbling dissonance,
laymen lay-ups,
Leading us to believe
it was a mere illusion,
but I believed in Magic.
(1/22/92)
Copyright © Suburban Lovechild | Year Posted 2015
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment