The Magic Lingers
 
The beast untethered roams and kills
from break of day 'till mend of night.
It claws its tracks in fallow hills
and never runs when it can fight.
 
But garb it round with robes of white,
lay silver seabird 'cross its breast,
rust fast its scales of dark and light,
and it will bend like all the rest.
 
Myself, I wear a livery torn.
The albatross, I never knew.
So in my soul the beast was born.
A chambered shell seals what was true.
 
Alone I run now late at night.
The moonshine feels so soft - so round.
I lift my head and howl my plight.
The magic lingers in the sound.
 
-Sean Hastings