The Jabberwock

Brushing soft fingers over a jet-black keyboard
I desperately grasp for something
(anything, please?)
Reach into the depths of my splintered brain
Try to shape the concrete of haze and malaise into a sculpture
But all I can make is a wall

The lesson of stories about magic is that the true magic is all around you
But I rarely see it
For this is a world where what was once magic is industrialized and sold with a ribbon on top
The magic that remains is never enough
Always fleeting,
spoiled,
a mockery.

So I let dreams crumble,
once flush with splendor and promise
into dusty derelicts full of dying hope.
which I tell myself that I am content to rot in
with denial as a surcoat to keep me warm
from the dry winds of reality
with fleeting pleasures as a dirty bandage
that leave my wounds, bleeding resolve, infected with a pitiful and useless feeling of apathy.

Even as I write this, there is no passion
as with anything else, it is a product of obligation
of shame.
this is how magic dies,
this is how I will die,
with the bitter knowledge that I did not do more.