A Forgotten Spell Poem by Aaron Marchant

When first, did the magic subside?
Our world of gentle alchemy.
Was it an illusion of youth,
that expectant synchronicity?
I would hum our tune, and it would begin to play
Turn a corner, and you would be there.
Was I the magician or under a spell?
I can still recall that melody
but no more give it voice.
I can only hope that somewhere it still plays.
As I turn another corner, I'm listening.
I have never stopped listening.