of good Nature’s whims;
held within the circle, a timeless stare
until I set myself to speak
In such a moment
all the tongues of spirit are unleashed;
any symbol of chalked sanctuary gone.
The Theurgia turns, a silent curse;
thunderous in its mandate, the breath of magic dies.
Men, once merry, sober; blood finds its life of wine.
Through the sudden void, shared audiences
quick become the warring parties
of a frightened traveler, his shattered power,
and the legion ever growing of secrets
which await the corners of our eye.