What spells we cast in the assertions of moments.
Conventions have us hammer presumptions into little lumps that we can hex each other with.
Magicians at root with little ken or art of knowing how our words weave spells potentially akin to mighty acts of nature.
Belief wrought by words can tremor and shape the very matter of constellations whose twinkle we set our compass by.
Our spells we think confetti things, to utter as lightly conjured sentences wag our tongue.
It is only a Merlin who can knowingly speak a mist to enfold a foe.
Our foe is no more than ourselves ensnared in a mantra spelling either through edicts made with brevity or notions we have engraved with our ardour.
All matter is alert to intent and will align to it.
No less the silent thought, vulnerable to enchantment by other spell makers keen to practice their arts, innocent or not of knavery.
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