There lies a fire behind my gaze,
Not born of smoke, nor ritual haze—
But deep within, a secret thread
Where silence speaks and fear has fled.
No cloak I wear, no wand I raise,
No ancient chant, no scripted phrase.
Yet still, I shape the dusk and dawn
With quiet hands, and will reborn.
The world would have me doubt this flame,
To name it myth, or worse—proclaim
That magic lives in other men
Or waits beyond some distant when.
But I have felt it in the still—
The shift of time obeying will.
A word, a thought, a breath drawn deep
Can stir the stars from dreamless sleep.
It is not power born of pride,
But presence with the storm inside.
To walk the edge of what is real,
And yet make space for light to heal.
The magician dwells not in the skies,
But in the soul that dares and tries—
That meets the dark with open heart,
And calls the broken world to start.
So here I stand, no spell to cast,
No future stolen from the past.
Just me—unmasked, with all I am,
Becoming truth, becoming flame.
Thank-you for reading.
Much love and Light,
Brenda Marie Fluharty
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