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.