Magic: Lost and Found

Magic Lost and Found
by S.A. Merk

Inspired by PTSD and Epic Poetry

I

Bright embers, like stars dying,
fall from the sky after a fireball lands,
the haze of dust takes their place on the battlefield,
somewhere, nowhere in this dark desert realm of Iraqistan.

Nothing is ever clear here.
An eternal, morbid haze follows us everywhere;
Black smoke, ebony skies, shadows of Death and War
invading everything…it never leaves.

Clouds of burning oil, blackened skies filled with shock and awe;
Sand everywhere, inescapable;
Sand soaked with blood and hate,
We breathe it, eat it, and try to rub it from our eyes.

We thought War was the cause
of our hate and loss, hunting those who hunted us,
like trying to stop a rolling boil with blood-stained hands,
futility of tolerance, disharmony at its best;

we found -- it wasn’t.

We thought Magic was lost from this world,
Imagination the only way to travel to distant lands,
Fantasy and Adventure simply distracting diversions,
but, as we sharpened our tools and loaded our weapons,

we found -- it wasn’t.

Yet, amidst the conflict and discord,
the blood of Dragons and Demons and Men
coalesce in the sand, turning black,
clotting and cooking under the Persian sun,
to cultivate and bear the seeds of Magic.

The Lord of Darkness and demons - The Twins of Light and love,
a Trinity born of Nature’s Balance,
oil-soaked animosity, and noble intent.

Together they have the power, the Magic of Imagination
to take me away from the horrors and Hate
that plague the desert of this accurséd land.

II

Magic squandered
since the twilight of the First Nations, when Ghosts danced
and the Spirits of the Ancestors walked among us
when the Wellspring of ancient Power flowed freely
quenching the mystic thirst of those in need.

Magic sacrificed
on a Trail of Tears, born of Balance and Harmony,
a Mystic Gift given for all who asked
now buried beneath shadows of Vanity and Greed
abandoned, it waits, until needed once more.

Cannons thundered their serenade,
a primeval melody of melancholy and fear.
The blood of the Wolf Queen spilled by bullets and bayonets
quietly covers the fallen tribes
dark crimson mourning veil of Warriors and Kings.

The Eventide of Peace, a dark massacre called Progress
shifted the Balance, severing the Connection
between Man and Nature,
Native and Noble,
Magic and Mundane.

I learned to accept Conflict,
within and outside my Self.
No accord
No apathy
...No choice.

Amidst the disconnect of blood and oil,
Harmony and Fellowship found,
our Connection to Magic restored
in Imagination; from the graceful honor of Dragons,
my noble band of Brothers.

III

I watch my brothers, an ancient race of noble clans
with Strength they defend, with Wisdom they teach and protect

as they slice through the air,
painting thin gray lines across the cerulean sky;

as their armored strength rumbles and roars across the battlefield,
a thousand noble dragons moving as one great serpent;

as they glide above and below the seven sapphire seas,
silent and strong, Magic incarnate;

reminding me of the sights and sounds of home
only memories now.

IV

I close my eyes and see
graceful Dragons of my Home, flying
with such speed their roars can only follow
as they fly overhead.

I lay down to sleep,
trying to fight back the cold desert night,
reminiscing of home, the warmth of DragonFire
and the security of Scales.

But here, safe in the bond of my Band of Brothers,
Lost Magic reawakens to defend and protect us
from the Evils that men do
to each other.

In war, I discovered and embraced Hate,
transforming idealistic Tolerance
into the wrath of a Warrior
to survive.

Magic,
the cost and consequence of War and Hate,
to see the Spirits fade, the irony revealed,
the price we’d paid; our Connection can be remade.
         
Nothing compares to the Joy and Freedom of Discovery
your Connection to Spirits and Ancestors restored
the lines between Magic and Mundane freely blurred
you are a member of the Dragon Clans once more.

V

The Airi-Clan,
through blackest night and darkest cloud, they see.
Their graceful wings, broad and refined,
great swordblades slicing through the wind,
each wing-beat shakes the very ground,
bending the air to their will;
forelegs, often shorter than the hind, yet armed
with elegant claws, capable of wondrous feats of gallantry.

I have seen them rescue Younglings from Torrent’s rage,
pluck a school bus from Tempest’s fury
and carry the injured safely home
even in the strongest sandstorm.
But conflict has imprisoned them
forced them to move war machines;
I wonder if their melancholy arises
from the plight of their captive purpose
--Longing to be free.

VI

The Armi-Clan,
so brave, forever Fidelis,
armored legs, like branches in the wind,
so strong they shield the helpless from Nature’s Fury
so supple they embrace the Hatchling rescued from the Storm.
The earth rumbles as they move
a deep hum, a soft familiar tune
we hear with our feet.

They fly without wings, flowing with single purpose
like liquid metal, they pour out across the ground,
Their deep growl carries for miles
reassuring to some, terrifying to the rest.
Watch as they search the rubble of a collapsed building,
tearing through thick stone and hardened steel
to Search and Rescue a child.
They weep because, in War, Death and Destruction
--follow them relentlessly.

VII

The Navi-Clan,
so silent, sleek, and swift,
soaring effortless through
the crushing darkness of fathomless waters;
Dragonflight hidden, slicing through
the crashing waves of the jagged surface;
their tails stretching miles of white foam wakes
to mark their passing.

Back-plate scales so broad, smooth, and strong
their brothers can land upon them.
Their ancient noble Path, obscured by War,
no longer rescuing the helpless lost at sea,
exploring the Realms beneath the waves,
now they must gild their backs for battle
to launch death and destruction
--into Persian deserts.

VIII

Magic lost and Conflict bred
by those who sell and buy Black Gold,
Earth’s Blood.
Our Elders called us to Serve;
from the far corners of AmeriRealm we came
to teach History’s lesson to Narcissus and Tyrannus.

Magic born and Dragons take flight,
wielding Wisdom, Honor, and Nobility from within us.
Lessons learned as Paradox explains
we separate ourselves from Nature and each other
we choose to open or close
the Gateway to other worlds.

We chose to Serve, not to Separate,
to pay the bitter, selfless price
of Freedom, even for the ungrateful.
We chose to lay down our lives
to defend those who could not
would not defend themselves.

We learned; Freedom is not free.
It comes from within us,
from our connection, from Magic.
Honor is not easy;
to do what is right
in spite of what is wrong.

IX

I watch and weep as my brothers fall
from the sky as the enemy aims
for their vulnerable, elegant wings;
Dark spells hidden beneath the earth
tears through their soft belly plates
sowing the parts of my brothers left behind.

Our test, tempted by Dark magic,
Firebolts launched from their Holy places
Firebombs destroyed their schools we just built
Fiery rage and fury caged - we must refrain
as their Wizards and Kings wield dark enchantments
transforming their children into bombs – and victims.

We learned to sheath our steely claws,
hold righteous Vengeance in check,
Justice suspended despite the toll;
a command by those who risked nothing,
a price we reluctantly paid
to discover Magic once more.

X

Like the Dragons of Old,
we valued Wisdom and Harmony
but did not fear the art of War.
Senses honed to a razor’s edge
but Emotions torn, edges left raw and bare.
The Ancient Ones knew, religion distorts faith,
they left behind the secrets of infinite Magic.
Written upon everything, everywhere around us;
the more we try to possess, the less we are able to hold
all we need is to look, to listen,
to choose not to ignore,
to open the Gateway within us.

I did not hate them for who they are
I hate what I was forced to become.
Hate helps us to forget who we are;
It keeps us separated
from Magic, the Earth, and each other.
The dark Hate-stone grew inside me,
facets buffed and polished by Persian sand.
I Hate that we left parts of my Brothers behind
lying useless on the field of battle;
I Hate that I can still taste
the smell of War.
But I learned

Sounds so deafening it invades our nightmares
The Magic of the Mind.
Sights so gruesome we fail to feel
The Magic of the Spirit.
Fear so intense it still affects us years later
The Magic of the Body.

I was home, lost in a torrent of emotion and memory.
My weapon unloaded, plates of armor put away
set aside until, sadly, needed once more,
I understood how magic was lost
how we gave up, gave away our sacred Connection;
how bonds become broken, tipping the Balance.
Imagination reforged; new spells reflect new need and intent.
To follow in the footsteps of the Immortals
listen to their Wisdom, lie in the warm embrace
of ancient Dragons;
We each face a choice, many paths on a single Journey
through the Mundane; life with or without Magic.

Do you wish to cast spells,
fly with Dragons,
Commune with Ghosts and the Ancestors
unlock the strength and wisdom that flows through life?
Then unlock the mystic Gate,
set off on your own Path,
cross over to the other side.
We are but a single thread
in the Tapestry of Life.
Woven together
or torn apart
the choice is ours.

Ancient Magic reawakening within me now
tapping into timeless wisdom and
limitless strength of Dragons.
Teaching me to wield primordial spells,
around the sacred fires of the Ancients
to seek counsel from the Ancestors
run with the Spirits
to weave mystic connections
back into the fabric of reality.
The man who returned home was forever changed
Hate, not gone
but, transformed.

The wealth and gifts of Magic surround us
if only we acknowledge and accept them.