The Conjurer by William Wright, Jr.

Shielded by the dead of night 

A homestead is alight

With neon-colored potions and plans

A lone and crooked frame

Weaves back and forth

Through the nurturing silence 

Where his madness may grow

Into an outburst of genius

Where his cauldrons ignite

And froth with his loathsome schemes

Until, “the night has come”

Crawls out of his throat 

And a dream, becomes a world set ablaze

A triumph, left smoldering in his past

© William Wright, Jr.

Excerpt from the book Poetic Shadows

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