When we are young There is magic at every turn Mystery in every shadow Tiny miracles in every falling leaf and in every wisp of cloud Some of us hold onto the magic as we grow to create beauty and meaning in the world Others lose it and join the steady march to the grave The Witch fancied herself gifted and thought she'd craft a world all her own For many years she worked Assistants came and went She sought the spark in everyone she met looking for signs spelled out in tea and on the wings of passing butterflies When she brought forth a child like the sun she thought at last she had harnessed true magic The stars read favorably and music showed her new meaning in every note But the time came for The Witch as it does for us all where she learned that such things do not exist All the magic she thought she'd mastered was nothing more than sleight of hand Store-bought doves hidden in sleeves and trick mirrors The heady flush of first love The glinting of new silver rings The carefully worded promises The urgent gasp of first life Were all manufactured and devoid of magic as a plastic-wrapped deck of cards Magic in the world is dead There is no spark that's not created artificially by chemicals and spirits imbibed by lonely people looking to recreate what they once felt as children The Witch saw this at last and she mourned Her belief in magic had been her greatest spell, a pervasive lie she'd lived so fervently for so long The weight of many years fell off as she doffed her cape She found that at least the stars held some of their beauty as she put away her childish things and prepared to join the march.