By T.G Hadley

      Magick's Soul cannot be sold
      nor bought, borrowed, grasped, nor caught.
      Shadows past: spun yarns, dream-woven;
      our Vision, diaphanous.     
      Spells spoken, hearts broken, joys: 
      all echoes, silent-fallen.
      To Catch Lightning in a jar,
      or seduce Aphrodite
      I labor so, whilst waxing
      my crafted Wings on Crete's cliff.
      I am Daedalus, I am
      Icarus; Narcissus, too. 

      My Divinations astound
      my wry Imaginations
      Yet I cannot conjure
      a distillation of Now. 
      To Dwell vibrant in Moments
      Unceasing, to suspend grave Gravity
      Is my wanton, vain Desire:
      yet, so I strive, a Wizard
      seeking a Time without Time,
      leaning on a staff of Aire
      My beard's gone bone-white, yet my
      Eyes are clear, clouded only
      by compassion for my Brothers,
      my Sisters here beside me...

      I hear their Voices as Heaven's
      Chorus, vibrating my Soul.
      They sing of Humanity's
      Passions, of disillusions,
      of inborn Nobility
      of creeping, Dark Ennui.

      To capture moonlight's Whisper
      to distill Sun in a Word
      this is the Magick I
      would practice, these are such Moments
      I so keenly seek to enjoin;
      I, the Wizards' Apprentice.

T.G Hadley