If I could just wave my wand

and be normal

I wouldn’t

give up the vision

or my magic to transmute.

No, I just can’t relieve my mystic ways.

So when the stained glass dragon flies

are no longer etched by morning sun

and the standing eagle has been removed

I know that change is inevitable.

Isn’t it always?

That is one can’t go back.

Isn’t that what It means?

It’s too late to discuss It

when enveloped in pensive gray clouds

instead of primary colored banners

of windy peregrination.