- Just a poem about this old feller with a wand and a battle.


He stands on his own,
no land here; no home,
no haven in sight for his heart,
and holds in his hand
a wand he has manned,
that’s delivered this world on this far.

The moon rose up high,
and in his clock eye,
reflected an image to strike,
a golden-white hue,
to a world scorched brand new
and an army awaiting this fight.

He tipped his top hat,
gave his cane a tap,
and stretched a smile across his face.
Then, with pale gloves so bright,
and a suit black as night,
he charged, spirits matching his pace.

Lightning, wild and free,
from his wand, you see,
lashed out in a blistering doom,
and filled this dark sky
above with a light
so bright that it rivaled the moon.

This magician of such,
wearing blood at the touch
of hands that wield power so fair,
cried a wish for the dead
from a portal of lead
behind one eye screaming forth a prayer.