A Fucking Magician — a poem

Each picture I’d formed
Of a beautiful man
Marbled, marvelled
Powerful, mine.
Shattered to shards
Between my holding hands,
Slicing my skin
Into red liquorice roads,
Dragging out the truths
I’d seen and painted
Across synaptic canvas.
Then hastily covered
Behind bricks, hidden
By a denial stronger
Than natural reason.
Poly-filler DIYer
Stupid idiot, seasoned liar,
Propaganda thrower, town crier.

But then it was found.
And littered the ground
Pamphlets of truths
Screaming, red letters
Inescapable frightening tarot tellers.
Forced, I faced a Love
I’d thought I found.
Saw it finally, lying in soil,
Realising he was of my making
My face reflected
In a puddle, letters bleeding
Disintegrating.

No more warped truths,
Not one hopeful glimmer,
But a never-ending pool
A glorious mirror.
The love was myself
And I was its Mother.
I’d formed it, made it
Bade it
From me to another.
As much a part of me
As the heart that had held you.
Its power so strong,
That it had become you.

Every space you didn’t fill
It poured straight into
So my love replaced you
And filled you.
A walking skin
Containing the person I’d made you.
You’re empty without me
A nothingness of ego,
Projecting onto others who listen
Now that I’m not there to.
But I distilled what you gave me
And made it ambrosial.
Turned mud into wine
Ready for drinking.
You called me a compromise.
I’m a fucking magician.