There is no magic here.
No-one will come to save you
With a wave of their wand
Or with fiery breath and beating wings.
Not in this poem.
You’ll have to save yourself,
And however you do that is up to you.
I write these days of desiccation and dearth,
With arid phrase and acrid wit.
Seek no comfort;
I have none to offer.
Other than: I am here.
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