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)