This poem is my interpretation of why I am the way I am these days.

As I was strolling on my evening promenade,

A little boy ran into me, but it seemed he wasn’t fazed.

I asked him what’s the matter, and he said none at all,

He said Magic was a troll and had almost made him fall.

At this, of course, I was amazed, and asked, “Who again is he?”

“Magic.” the little bairn replied, and remarked, “And she’s a she.”

“Well what are you doing?” I asked, intrigued,

“Morning magic.” he blithely chirped, and sped away from me.

–

As again I walked about to see what I would see,

The same young man was weeping up in a banyan tree.

I asked him whats the matter, and he solemnly replied

That he was leaving Magic, and therefor magic died.

I probed for explanation, and a tear away he flicked,

“She left, sir. What more can I say? There’s no more of her magic.”

–

As I plodded to my raft to maybe catch something,

A gray figure stood in the rain that looked like some one I’d seen.

I walked a little closer, and asked him, “What do you there?”

“Mourning Magic.” responded he, and then he walked away.