Wary eyes scan the dusty trail, indignant is he ... how dare legion attempt to ensnare him?
One of their ranks taking on the trickster at its own game ...
what does that place of evil hope to gain ...
His defence is most surely slake-less ... so why the pursuit and the attack by the evil eye?
It is pointless ... senseless ... amusing; he cannot help but smile
But he is wary all the while.
The mongoose still must respect the snake
A phial of the antidote graces a shelf in his laboratory
The bite anticipated; a harmless mote he braces himself for
The tall grass beside the trail he once blazed ... a time lost deep in his soul’s earliest memories
The blue print crafted by he now practised by a modern player
He smiles for the web fibres he detects, though invisible, guarantee the snake shall soon appear
And the bite ... a mere touch on his arm; an apparent act of friendship ...
He trusts none ... and recognises his impartiality as a role player
As the mirror in which the player must see himself as he most surely is
But is doomed to deny for the glamours surround his mind entirely
He shall attack the mongoose for sure ... striking in an act of apparent glory
The defences breached; there is a chance the snake will succeed ....
Then the anecdote takes hold
and the poison barb is shot down; flames rising but the phoenix shall never rise
Too much damage is done
as the tower of babel comes crashing down again ...
Again ... the black magi loses face
and the priest walks away
Smiling
Laughing
Learning that humans despise having flaws
Attacking perfection through fear ......
The blueprint finely tuned for the next player to come along
And the ancient magi may be the one who acts as the lamb
Lying in wait for the snake, anticipating the bite
For circles are eternal, and the magi knows he is doomed to return
again and again to the same point
Countless confrontations with the exact same player
A wayward soul bearing a continuum of dust forms
Doomed to a circular venture until he realises the mistake
and accepts that a stray, wayward thought took form
The glamours creating in the physical the whim the soul desired
Again and again the sensation coursed through his veins
Becoming then a vehicle for that evil place ...
Matthew James 24 October 2003
