Magic must be reinvented-

Taro-nude witches
whose passion passed,
for fear of truth,
magic is yours. I
myself surrender, I
my soul concur.
To reinvent requires corpse
but I see only life itself undress
as simply as love exists.

Now the Chapel’s walls collapse to
the heavy artillery of brass,
John the Baptist in his train
suffers spiritual sleep and
light, of pain, is gone-
from my trembling hand,
while magic
reigns supreme.

Tonight those yet silent
shall rise from
space-in-between-words
to dance with lively mysteries
(collecting starts for rainy nights,
appeasing ghosts of dawn)
and birth magic
anew.