I sailed to a store I didn’t choose, Where witches named vessels and names got confused. I called to my son, and the mirror replied— A woman beside him with flame in her eyes.
Magic on plastic, magic on sound, And a book in the corner where stories are found. Treehouse of wonder, a child’s holy gate, Calling me home through the whisper of fate.
And later that night in the arms of my bride, I burned through her body with heaven inside. I shattered the weeks with a ravenous kiss, And poured her a chalice of molten abyss.
So if you ask me what magic looks like— It’s not just in incense or spells done at night. It’s in thrift-store aisles, in names, in the bed, Where gods wear our faces and **** us instead.