Our self-made magic

Old poets’ idle prattle
         words that would wound
the wayward wind
          Lives hollowed
by the wearing
         of cheap trinkets
all celebrate
         in sanctimonious ceremony
the abject anecdote
         and view
with sour-eyed disdain
         the truth of beauty

So saying
         disentangle the nets of being
cut down the webs
         of intrigue and deceit
shun scarcity and want
         release the ensnared foot
and invoke the majesty
         of the magic we make
Throw out the baseless fabrics
         of fame and fortune
the trumpery
         upon whose nature
nurture can never stick :
         from spider learn
the fragility of life’s ladders
         and scorn the cankers
that lie
         within the body politic

John Lyons