his suit was made of
wax flower petals.

he was the rain,
his blood rushing
to fill the lake of ice
beneath his feet,
making him delirious.

he was made of magic-

scratch that-

he has been made of magic

of ancient chants,
of hidden forests,
of improvised songs
balanced on the tip of his finger

but he cannot control
his sore muscles,
or the funny thing
his hands do when he's nervous.

he wishes he could be back
in his treehouse
like when he was a kid

but the ocean spray beckons him
away
from the magic
he used to call home.