along shores of ancient woods where fairies dare not tread and rambling rivers merge a high hot wind circles the tent like a noose

a black rabbit flies out of a hat on the wrong cue coaxing two ravens out beneath a long black cape screaming like Valkyries into startled crowd

the magician pretends this a part of the act his weathered honed bony finger distracting towards the skies like electric pinwheels in dark dry air as hairs on your neck stand up

the poles pull muslin taut and loose again snapping like a whip arousing your interest as winds whisper into a howl calling out the magician’s true moniker – Odin

for an instant, his eyes catch yours paralyzing you and you know the jig is up, concede to his unwavering gaze you must; there is no other way to survive his wrath but to submit

he has never been more daring…….racked in chains and padlocks submerging into deep dark water bubbles lifting to the surface writhing to get free you are hooked into his war

his iron clad chains emerge from just below the surface raising his body unblemished as you realize his fury in the wave as the crowd reaches a frenzied state beyond reproach

Someone from the back of the tent cries “FIRE!!” as the pyre sets ablaze he remains still…….. Valhalla is calling this warrior home and you are but his royal ancestral sacrifice

there are no survivors; he will be with you always calling you by your true name

he is the shadow of your fears, bad debt, the deafening silence at the end of the phone

he is the glass slipper, the loom, the thorny red rose, the terrors of your night

he is the mirror on the wall cracking with unsettling truth

he is the horse hoof with iron foot and he will trample you until you enjoy it

 

he is the unspeakable and the only language you will ever understand