He waited quietly for the fire
in the pit to die down,
contemplating what he
had found written in the scattered
bones and petals.
Each month he scried under
the light of the full moon,
practicing lost arts
in the anonymity
of a hidden basement.
He was powerful, a formidable
opponent of evil. He faced
down dragons at his peak,
staff in hand atop a stone,
fearless protector of the weak.
But, there are no calls for wizards
anymore, no dragons to face
down or goblins to chase after;
the evils of today are not susceptible
to magic and heroes.
So he keeps his potions and powders
hidden away, stores his staff in the corner
and locks the room behind him, waiting
for the signs to indicate it was time
to reveal himself again.
For the Sunday Whirl