Magus Poem by John M. FitzGerald

I would be one of the wanderers,
with heaven watching.
Observe, you reflections, I glance away.

Notice wonder spring forth in ancientness,
steep the spell held in spices, hypnotized.
In dreams I descend twenty steps at a time,

am afraid how I’ll land if I fly too high.
I try not to say I, and claim myself,
a sign of consciousness uncovering.

Who calls me, from such transience?
We will ourselves into vastness,
like children at graves,

a wind with just one chance to blow,
both toward and away from itself in surprise,
or life is waste.

There are shooting stars, then that which lingers,
even hovers like a hawk, a halo, a messenger.
None can bear looking straight toward the sun.

We see it reflect off the ocean by day, the moon at night.
Imagine someone’s sun fly away.
What must it search for, in its burning?

Galaxies witness it bursting through silence.
May it glow to the end in spite of where it finds itself.
Let innocence cling to the universe, swirling,

get high and go hungry, distill our minds
till we can’t control what spills from inside,
and at heart remain addicts, ever humble.