Why There Are No More Sorcerers, Part I
There was a young man named Anton,
who lived back in the seventies,
he wasn’t the type to fit in,
felt outcast from society.
Never got along with others,
and didn’t enjoy playing sports,
his parent’s said, “Just get out more.”
It was for his good, they’re exhort.
But like so many introverts
Anton thought that the world was wrong,
that most people ran with the herd,
they conformed, they weren’t all that strong.
He glorified the fact that he
didn’t go along with the trends,
and slowly developed hatred
for all the ‘ordinary’ men.
It’s a path that we know too well,
even now in this modern age,
and Anton’s father worked a lot,
barely saw his son on most days.
So Anton just drifted further,
dabbling with some occult books,
not just some stupid Ouiji Board,
quite deeply did young Anton look.
And when his mother went to France
to go visit her relatives,
she brought Anton along with her,
quite a trip for a teenage kid.
During the long weeks in Paris
the teen went to explore the town,
and found there an antique bookshop,
he spent hours looking around.
In it he found, in tattered tomes,
books claiming that they taught magic,
thinking he’d hit on a gold mine
he got them down, bought them up quick.
The shopkeeper just rolled his eyes,
he’d tried to sell that junk for years,
if some young fool would pay for them
then what was there for him to fear?
It turned out there was quite a lot,
though nobody knew it back then,
since these books were not forgeries,
carried knowledge of ancient men.
And thought it took Anton some time
to learn ancient French and Latin,
by the time he finished college
the books yielded secrets to him.
They told him the ways of magic,
of dark powers men could call on,
at first he thought it just a joke,
but believed the words before long.
Who, back then, would write books this long,
back when paper was quite pricey?
That did not make much sense to him,
so Anton decided to see.
He ingested ingredients,
strange herbs, and cruel insects that sting,
he tattooed sigils in his skin,
and called upon all dark beings.
It started with some little things,
moving cups with waves of his hand,
electric glows on his fingers,
leaping higher than a man could stand.
But power corrupts everything,
and he was corrupt from the start,
Anton was an easy target
with resentment deep in his heart.
He began shooting bolts of light,
vaporized a dog to practice,
at a bar he once waved a hand
shattering a young woman’s wrist...
CONTINUES IN PART II.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment