“The Magician's Flame”

In a velvet night where silence hums,

A magician stands — the showman comes.

With eyes like still and stormless seas,

He bends the stars with practiced ease.

A wand he lifts, not made of wood,

But carved from dreams where magic stood.

His fingers trace the edge of fate,

Where time dissolves and minds dilate.

Behold! A hat—no mere disguise,

But a portal born from whispered skies.

And from its crown, like thoughts set free,

Erupts a spark, a fiery sea.

Not fire that burns, but wonder's flare,

A glow that dances in the air.

Each golden spark, a tale untold,

Each ember, worth a kingdom's gold.

His bow tie red, like roses bloom,

Contrasts the black of velvet gloom.

A ribbon spun from silent oaths,

To never show what magic loathes.

He does not speak, but all hearts hear,

The language shaped from dream and fear.

A hush, a gasp, a held-in breath—

This is his world, defying death.

From mind to hat, and hat to spark,

He tames the flame and sculpts the dark.

A man? Perhaps. Or something more—

A mirror through a secret door.

His smile is calm, but eyes declare,

He knows the realms that float in air.

He walks the line where logic dies,

And pulls down moons from voiceless skies.

Is it a trick? Is it a lie?

Or just the truth in masked reply?

He teaches us with every flash,

That limits live where dreams may crash.

This flame, this light from hat released,

Is not just show—it’s soul, unleashed.

It burns not skin, but thoughts gone numb,

And wakes the child we all become.

For magic’s not in hats or wands,

But in belief that still responds.

It lives in hope, in wide-eyed stare,

In places logic wouldn’t dare.

So when you see that blazing plume,

Erupt from silence, break the gloom—

Know this: within each spark and swirl,

Lies every dream that shapes this world.