Magic is a tricky thing to define
Like Love it defies one concrete explanation
And I find that what Magic is to me changes day to day
But I know for certain writing is magic
Magic is often thought of as a conjuring
Or sleight of hand
But I like to think of it as undirected energy
So then what happens when that energy is given a focus?
I see entire worlds behind my eyes and I take up a pen
And cast a spell, binding my words like runes
Into the long dead carcass of a tree
And there they stay, undirected but charged
Burned into the page with potential
And when someone reads my words
The spell is complete and the Magic truly happens
My worlds are theirs now and they share in them with me
Even after I have taken my final breath
My inner passion, the fire of creativity
That burns in my soul and is caught in the page
Lives on in everyone that my stories touch
And who could deny that is Magic?
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