If there were magic

If there were magic

It wouldn’t be pretty

Nothing comes of power

Without it causes panic

In the rest of us

The Magi are not gods

They rip through wet flesh

Throwing the best of us

Into the air

Where we are food

For the carrion

Corrugated fly paper

Blankets are no match

For armour

The wielders of gunpowder

The procurers of wealth

Brothers in arms

Manufacturers of death

Hollow as empty vessels

Nowhere is safe

From harm

Empathy is in short supply

It is a land of giants who

Carry all before them

A river of broken promises

In their wake

Anger boils

The bodies pile up

Corpses float in tears

There is nothing but fear

In the eyes of children

As rich men play

At being human

Hollowed out

And full of horse shit

Unaware of their complicity

Too caught up

In hubris

To see the error of their ways

There is no magic

To it

Just sleight of hand

And dirty tricks

Even the Magii are puppets

A chorus line

In a magic circle.