Initiation

You wanted magic, the child said, leading
The old man down into the quiet darkness.
Above them, soulscape stars glittered,
Each one a famous face, saying their pat lines.
Who doesn't? the old man asked, wondering
If he'd forgot his pills, if this was only a dream.
Nothing is only a dream, the child chided gently.
And to see dreams is magic, all the magic there was.
To make them real is art, all that magic can be.

They came, old man and young, in the manner
Of dreams, transitioning to another place without pause.
My old high school, the old man said strangely.
What's it doing in here? Why are we here?
For what - the child began, then: You did not mean
In the larger sense? This is your soul; you tell me.
I hated it here. Is this magic, then? Hate? he demanded.
The child smiled. But of course. Hate and fear and love
Are magic, but the kinds that do not that. They don't
Mean enough, to near deep enough as desire and intent.
To see things as they really were is magic, here, in you.
To make the future what is want is all magic should be.

Then who are you? the old man asked, not bitter but more sad.
No one real, the boy said. Just a guide to what waits inside you.
You look like I did, when I was a boy. Or how I wanted to look.
The children grinned, and thanked him, having looked
In other dreams and souls as many things, some of them
Best left unremembered. But this was magic, to walk into dark places
And Hold up a light. And this is all magic, all power, all wisdom:
Not looking away. Not from what you wanted, nor the prices
For getting it. Not looking back is only for those scared of the magic.