A thief breaks into the sultan’s most guarded treasure vault. The only thing in the room is a small wooden box, with the word “magic” carved into its lid.
The enemy stands before
Perfection, ready to be marred
Striking down endless possibilities
To one flawed finale,
Claiming it correct.
Boldly laying claim to withered words
Twisting trepidly that which
I barely know of
Stating struggle to win wonderment
Praise perforating my achievement
Reefing rhythm from its rut
Calling it clever as they struggle
With stilted prose.
Finished and alone, along the way back
Reigniting passion through pursed lips.