Poem: Fire Magic

Did emotions spark it?

Or something genetic?

Heat leaks from fingers,

And steams the air,

Eyes boil but do not break,

And it’s always the start—

Of something more.

A mage born newly,

At the ripe of old age—

Of too young,

He spills from his fingers,

And from his mind,

Flames so high,

Bright so they blind,

Burn away the kind,

And be something new.

These new kids with magic,

With no teacher,

Have much to do,

Before they burn away,

All they may,

And lay on the floor,

Dead and there for someone to find—

Some rotting day.

So, if you feel it in your soul,

Magic you won’t control,

Then prepare soon,

Because magic is like a bomb—

A deadly typhoon.

Special thanks to: Collin Pearman. 

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Want to read something longer by me? How about a whole novel! 

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