He sat patiently
anticipating the return of the casting of spells;
his big break:
they'd see what a wizard he was.
The landline rang,
secure against air mystics
but susceptible to the ground wiles.
Suddenly his skin was burning.
They'd tricked him with science!
But his timing was barely off.
In a fortnight spells were trending as he'd hoped.
He shook off the diagrams and calculations.
He smashed the vile.
and he turned his mind to magic.
Perfectly everything stopped;
he had executed the Weaving of the Wrenches.
But none were not paused / nary an active soul there was to know it.
And when he unwove it expertly, with a thought, none felt the awakening —
all was merely as it had been, none the wiser. None, save his familiar: a
marsupial he'd
invented
back when he
wore a lab coat.
Cruel mastery, hiding its own magnificence,
said the familiar's eyes.
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