Days of Joy
Once I had a magic wand.
With sizzles and snaps of golden power
it dazzled me with all it could do.
I held it aloft, a beacon in the darkness,
a transformation stick bringing to life the promise
of realizing incredible possibilities
in flashes of joyful brilliance.
Life imbued by the magic was full and rich
in sacred depth, endless fascination,
revealing mysteries, and adventurous wonder.
Then one day I was struck blindsided by a terrible reality.
The truth of the matter was shouted in my face.
I was informed in no uncertain terms,
what I had in hand was not a magic wand.
Why would one ever think so?
It was merely a sparkler,
a most common and puerile type of firework
meant only to amuse children
with delusions of special enchantment.
To pretend anything else
was a neurotic attachment bond
to a romanticized, idealized illusion.
Ever since that fateful day,
I’ve kept that sparkler with me,
although sometimes I wonder why.
I still enjoy the brilliant shower
of golden sparks it produces,
but no matter how I try,
I can no longer see it as a magic wand.
In my maturity I know better,
as those around me like to remind.
Life moves on, as it will.
As much as I attempt to be mature
and enlightened on the matter,
a quiet insistence within can't shake
the telling thing, the thing undeniable.
The experience is still there
and yet the eruption of sparks isn’t the same
and neither are the emotions they evoke.
Now there’s meager enjoyment,
not glorious enchantment.
Now there’s passing amusement,
not golden transcendence.
Now I find pale pleasure,
not colorful excitement and fulfillment.
As consolation, I suppose,
I can now say I am not neurotic, I’m not deluded,
I’m not lost in immature make-believe.
But if, as I am told, I am so much better now,
now that I know the truth
and accept the reality of the situation,
then why can’t I shake this feeling deep inside,
a sinking sense of loss of spirit.
Something lingers, a fervent yearning,
a most pure quest wedded to my soul.
Secretly I long for the days
when I had my magic wand.
Those were the days of my joy.
Once I had a magic wand.
With sizzles and snaps of golden power
it dazzled me with all it could do.
I held it aloft, a beacon in the darkness,
a transformation stick bringing to life the promise
of realizing incredible possibilities
in flashes of joyful brilliance.
Life imbued by the magic was full and rich
in sacred depth, endless fascination,
revealing mysteries, and adventurous wonder.
Then one day I was struck blindsided by a terrible reality.
The truth of the matter was shouted in my face.
I was informed in no uncertain terms,
what I had in hand was not a magic wand.
Why would one ever think so?
It was merely a sparkler,
a most common and puerile type of firework
meant only to amuse children
with delusions of special enchantment.
To pretend anything else
was a neurotic attachment bond
to a romanticized, idealized illusion.
Ever since that fateful day,
I’ve kept that sparkler with me,
although sometimes I wonder why.
I still enjoy the brilliant shower
of golden sparks it produces,
but no matter how I try,
I can no longer see it as a magic wand.
In my maturity I know better,
as those around me like to remind.
Life moves on, as it will.
As much as I attempt to be mature
and enlightened on the matter,
a quiet insistence within can't shake
the telling thing, the thing undeniable.
The experience is still there
and yet the eruption of sparks isn’t the same
and neither are the emotions they evoke.
Now there’s meager enjoyment,
not glorious enchantment.
Now there’s passing amusement,
not golden transcendence.
Now I find pale pleasure,
not colorful excitement and fulfillment.
As consolation, I suppose,
I can now say I am not neurotic, I’m not deluded,
I’m not lost in immature make-believe.
But if, as I am told, I am so much better now,
now that I know the truth
and accept the reality of the situation,
then why can’t I shake this feeling deep inside,
a sinking sense of loss of spirit.
Something lingers, a fervent yearning,
a most pure quest wedded to my soul.
Secretly I long for the days
when I had my magic wand.
Those were the days of my joy.
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