by Belinda Roddie
Come, chariot, come,
and unload this burden from my back.
My eyes are faced forward,
but my shoulders ache from the strain.
Sleep, lion, sleep.
You are inner strength tamed
and led by a loose chain. Your dreams
will only be disrupted should the devil tempt
me into self-enslavement
once again. See the world
in all its triumph. There, she tiptoes
and reaches equilibrium. She dances,
and the water kisses her ankles. She twirls
her batons, and the silver matches the light
of the moon above. See: I think I am
unworthy of the accolades I receive,
for I do not consider myself a Renaissance
man, nor do I find my skills honed enough
to make me a master of all design. But
the light crowns my head as well as any
bejeweled diadem, and I can be as much
a queen or king as all other monarchs
Rest, chariot, rest,
and let me recover my senses for a while.
The sun rises and sets over this year,
and Chaos is given a blanket to swaddle
its children in and a pillow to rest its head on.
Pan is horned, but disoriented. His vision
is not as good these days. I set my load
down for another day. Above me are
the silhouettes of those who sacrificed
their lives while still enjoying livelihood.
They offer me the wand, the sword,
the pentacle, and the cup. I drink, and I am
nourished. The blade is resolute at my hip.
I let the fireworks stream and the glow of new
success guide me. I have a personal agenda of
my own. I must tend to it, if
I wish to see my hopes come into fruition. And
I wish, above all else, to become the master.
I want to be the Magician.