The magician knows he is no Houdini.

 

He knows it is not magic he practices

so much as tricks: the tools of his trade

 

smokes and mirrors, illusions, sleights of hand.

 

He cannot perfect the perfect trick,

the one he wants the most:

 

to escape from here and now,

 

from the trap he has set for himself

with every choice he has made,

 

the life he cannot leave without leaving

 

life, the life he cannot lead

without himself becoming illusion.

 

Somewhere amidst the tricks

 

he lost faith, believed himself a fraud,

blind to the perfection of the trap.