I've never met a wizard
Who’s five thousand years old before.
With silver beard longer
Than his height of four-feet-four
To match his pointy hat and forget-me-not colored robes.
The skin on his face crinkles
With the latitude wrinkles of a globe.
At least that’s what I imagine he would look like.

Then again, the wizard could be eternally young;
All sun-kissed hair,
Skin as smooth as a skipping stone,
And words rolling like a croissant off his tongue.
Surrounded by people but always alone,
His subconscious castle crawling with lichen.

It could be that his magic follows him
With the bittersweet smell of cinnamon
Diffusing into our minds with grim
Refashioning them into clay minions.
No way to know if we have this leech.

Or maybe he’s a she
Adorned with lilac hair and eyes;
Beautiful enough to be all one vies.
But her wardrobe all in shades of bone,
Conveying her as eerie enough to be left alone.
No friends means she doesn’t have to lie.

Wizards could be taller than skyscrapers,
Or something else that you could write better on paper.
To find a real one, you have to look
Beyond the ink-splattered pages of a book,
And take a pause to see life’s light.