shifting
The Wizard of Sand
I am not the benevolent Oz, great or otherwise —
no levers behind velvet, no emerald gates to dazzle the credulous —
only the stubborn machinery of my own making,
a few cogs greased with irony,
a crank that squeaks in the key of
don’t take this too seriously,
until the hum you mistake for a hymn
becomes the wind over a toppled statue in the sand.
Once, its face wore the smirk of a ruler certain he’d outlast the sun.
The words at its base still shout about greatness —
but there’s nothing left to rule but air and grit.
Your fawn‑eyed devotion is touching,
in the way a moth’s devotion to a porch light is touching,
and just as doomed.
Look on my works, ye Mighty — and bring a broom;
the dust is winning,
and the curtain you thought was closing
was only the desert swallowing the stage.
.
