“Pure Magic”

 Upholsterer’s needle or sorcerer’s wand,
     Wielded by fluttering fingers,
Cast their design with a mystical bond
     Enticing emotion which lingers

Beyond the creative impulse exquisitely
Conjuring visions imagined
Where passion for meaning electrifies me
And keeps me from feeling imprisoned.

I could have chosen to suffer the stress
When hunger for status enslaves,
But deep in my yearning, strange dreams coalesce,
Which most sublimate to their graves.

I never could stare at a castrating screen
While my energy puddled my chair,
Even given percentage of profits obscene,
As my payment for utter despair.

So I work with my hands with slight compensation
Except reckoning never known
By those hoarding trinkets as their explanation
For a life where no light’s ever shone.

My fingers know joy is the only reward
That matters within a brief life,
Wielding scissors or hammer like a magical sword
Instead of a cheap paring knife

Which others attempt to pull from the stone
To cut themselves free from what’s tragic,
While I can exult in each stitch that I’ve sewn
On a journey whose rapture’s pure magic.

                                                                                    July, 2003