What we call magic
is merely the set of tools left over
from the spiraling eddies of Creation
and picked up by Poets.
Poets, who can transmute the dross and tedium of life
into the gold of enduring art,
who can sing the sky into existence
and the stars to sleep
whose words are eventually eaten up by ravenous Time
and spit out like sour grapes onto the ground,
left to rot.
Poets, who will write
until the only ones left to read
are languishing gods
and unraveling stardust.