The
sorcerers played in their own front yard,
Cardboard
and crayon cutlery, no faith
Because
no doubt. The little kings who lived
Regnant
beneath the evergreens, concealed
By
prickly leaves and bagworms, weren’t impressed.
The
eldritch practices of kids on trikes,
Gray
in good time, and teens do not recall
White
magic. They require faith. They pray
To
gods and spirits, wholly insincere.
Elder
than all, and smaller than their sight,
The
little kings bowed once and turned their hands
To
caterpillars, lightning bugs, and soup
Brewed
from a clover damp with morning dew,
Seasoned
with berries poisonous to men,
And
set the spiders watching, all those eyes.
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