So I was listening to a song by Imagine Dragons from their Smoke + Mirrors album, and although I’ve seen the album cover before and have never really thought much of it, for some reason this time I was a bit inspired.
I’m not entirely certain what story the band is trying to convey with the image, of course, and I’m not trying to write a poem based on that story. I just found the image intriguing enough to base a poem off of.
Bound: hands now, in gold thread that chafes against the skin
But himself in his entirety is bound for the pyre.
Magician. A dangerous word. A dangerous thing to be.
His spindly fingers were meant to create,
But always with the ability of creation
Comes the predilection for destruction
A fine line divides, for where one thing ends, another begins;
To destroy is to make room for a new creation.
The magician thinks case in point
As cold fingers clasp against each other,
And the warm surge of magic turns into something softer
Something made of flesh and blood and breath.
The magician is guarded but no one is watching now;
No one is paying attention.
Fingers unfurl, and a robin bursts out.
Ah, a fine thing, he thinks.
No way out for him, none but the pyre,
But for the bird, there is total freedom,
And life and breath without number.
The robin flies free
While the magician remains bound.