Magic is in decline, despite “WICKED”
and Harry Potter’s awesome learned spells.
We carry too much practicality
with us, to spray wherever MAGIC dwells. 

We can’t escape the feeling that something
is lacking in our lives, some color, some
music, some depth of rainbows and sunsets,
a missing song that never seems to come—

clear and radiant as church bells or snow. 
We have a sense of waiting for something
to bring our robot bodies to life once
again, to jolt our silent flesh to sing.

No angel hymns, no carols from the sky,
Maybe a silver trill within a sigh
We have to make our own kind of magic 
As we snatch at love before it passes by.