You think it's magic that light will climb the skies,
that mind's inner math measures volumed world,
and branch bobs bird as bird with branch replies;
that no heart mends at midnight- whirl when hurled
spins and twirls toy top. We forever hope
charms bind us; but not magic to be knot;
Spells slip taut ties; then they scale slackened rope
reared in air- disappear- clear gone when sought.
But lives are greater magic. Death's forever.
We're last-act rabbits lost in stage-show hat.
Life's so short; so almost-nearly-never;
dead ever in etcetera, just like that.
Flick of fate's cuff when it's too late to check...
viably speaking, you're palmed from the deck

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