The spiral turns, and thought unspools—
a velvet fog within my skull.
By candle’s dying breath I meet
The Magician, inverted, cruel.

He speaks in sigils, salt, and smoke,
his eyes twin moons of withered fire.
He bends the weave with hidden hands,
a liar cloaked in priestly attire.

With sleight of soul, he taints the threads:
In chalice, coin, and lover’s touch.
He sows disease in sacred ground,
and claims the stars grant him such.

But I must walk the blade of fate,
or drown beneath the dreamless deep—
where Leviathan waits, and time forgets,
And cursed souls are sung to sleep.

Written by Hazel Phoenix at 9:48 AM MST on 07/31/2025