On the minute of the hour of the morn of the day,
The wizard came out to play.
Sublime and mundane, serene and profane,
The wizard learned how to pray.
"Free me from the shackles my own fists hold together,
Whisper secrets
into my crusty eyes.
Power flows to and through me
I am vessel
I am the skye."
And silence met the wizard's words
as sea meets shore and air meets land
as fire crossing millions of empty miles
meeting flesh
becomes God's active hand.
At the minute of the hour at the close of the day
The wizard flew back to his home
Clear intention like a raptor
diving, striking in the night
The results, as of yet, unknown.
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