Wizard

He spins his breath
In to a spell
Of enigma circling,
Like an auric cloak of twisting fog
Behind which he ducks
In the maintainence of mystery.

What dwells within the vortex
Behind the wall of half
Answered questions
And glimpses
Drawn away by the spell?
Is there a mystery within
Or only the wish of mystery
And its subtle trickery
Of the hidden man?

I invite you,
Wizard behind the spell of
Manipulated wonderment:
Step forward, naked and without the
Swirling clothes that hide your name
And deflect every question
To a riddle in a cul de sac.

Step out, Wizard.
Is not real magic,
To be visible, straight forward,
Unclothed and vivid as the thing
Unashamed and confident:
The mysterious wand set down,
The spell dispersed,
The conjuring acquitted,

The self beneath, unmasked.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016

Sympathy For The Sorry Self

I offer sympathy
To the sorry,
Lonely self
Who burned the bridges
To the wider self,
Severing from his larger entity,
To go solo and hurting
With a wound
Of self reducing,
And isolation
In the mind
Restricted from the universe,

That could be his
If only he could recognise
The wideness of his nature’s truth
And Accept his home
Beyond the reaches of his skin.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.