No more

Mothballs and cedar assault my nose

The dust mites and stale air dry my throat

A wardrobe that is just that

The lion roars no more

Neutered and robbed of his fire

The last time the words were read

In the darkness of this cell I fear the witch no more

Drunk at her cauldron 

Slurred words conjure no magic 

Snow driven mountains of pure white

Have dissolved into a gray haze 

Footprints like bread crumbs dissolved 

My desperate escape blocked

Solid wood between me and salvation 

My world made infinitely small

 When the gateway to Narnia can no longer be imagined, the magic dies

(Trystan Colin Behm- April, 2024)