Bottles on the table next to the window,
each one a testimony
to our need for magic potions, elixirs
to repair every manner of ailment
to give us the ability to shoot the moving target,
in the dark. In the fog.
Magic to be what we are not, well and whole,
dismissing what we are,
gloriously imperfect, each
with magic of our own.
About this poem.
This is not the poem I intended to write, proving once again, the muse is stronger than the mind.