We have stood
silent before the smoke,
the voice commanding from shadows,
an endless spectacle of
fire and sound
and illusion strung tight as wire.
They told us the wizard
was mighty, implacable,
a storm-maker whose fury
was justice, whose whims were
law carved from thunder.
But we saw, didn’t we?
Through the trembling fabric,
a tired man
in the anxious act
of levers, buttons,
and desperate bluster.
We saw his hollow eyes
darting in fear
at the thought
of being discovered small.
And when the curtain fell—
thin fabric, soft as grief—
we heard our own breathing
for the first time.
We learned the wizard was never
what held us here
but our belief,
the terrible dream we helped spin
with threads of silence.
It was never magic, only power
disguised as magic;
and now we must grieve the loss
of innocence, yes,
but also of illusion.
We must grieve and move
past grief—
no longer reacting,
no longer captive to the storm—
but firm-footed, naming clearly
every lever, every trick,
every trembling insecurity
that kept us kneeling
before smoke.
And though the wizard still shouts,
and though the pyrotechnics remain,
we have seen
through smoke, through mirrors:
we cannot unsee the shaking hands,
cannot unknow
the fear behind the noise,
cannot forget the clarity
that is courage
when illusions fall
and voices rise
steady, awake, alive.
The Whispered Verse 