Thunder on the Tongues of Mumblers

                    I. Voces Magicæ

                                        i. ΑΣΚΙΟΝ

               Constrained by their isolation,
          the fire-keeping generation,
     seeking release from their fathers’
prisons, read to me their ignored
     petitions, as if sensing my
          ability, such as they must
               perceive it, to free chained minds from

                                        ii. ΚΑΤΑΣΚΙΟΝ

               centuries of unkindness by
          which entire bloodlines bind themselves,
     a magus entertaining blank
pages of places they list as
     their fates’ final destinations,
          dolls with dull faces painted wet
               with tears dripping through dust’s layers

                                        iii. ΛΙΞ

               of ages, restless as their souls
          awaiting death’s stagecoach, they plead
     for me to awaken their cloaked
spirits without reproach, to raise
     from certain ignorance the thing
          no other living magician
               can manage, to work miracles

                    II. Ephesia Grammata

                                        i. ΤΕΤΡΑΞ

               into existence and cure them
          of their afflictions with proven
     hands, to heal mortal wounds, damage
inflicted not by quick flashes
     of a past life’s bad luck, karmic
          debt resurrected, or lightning
               strikes of foresight’s terrifying

                                        ii. ΔΑΜΝΑΜΕΝΕΥΣ

               panic, but a curse for flesh far
          worse, what skins from flame its light’s use,
     a tragic misunderstanding
of true magic, that its force kills
     fools who abuse without scruple
          the double-edge of this ancient
               sword’s piercing language, a scalpel

                                        iii. ΑΙΣΙΟΝ

               laid with all the untamed haste of
          children playing surgeons onto
     the throats of lambs which, like Hell’s doors,
once opened, cannot be closed by
     remorse or prayers, solitude’s song
          one my words quiet when storms drop
               thunder on the tongues of mumblers.