The New Magick (a sonnet of sorts)

It's so easy to look down from a self-appointed umpire's position;
it requires neither empathy nor self-awareness, nor insight.
The magic of the ivory tower of academia,
penning treatise which only reflect mere theory.
The direction is always outward,
never inward,
never reflection,
cold words wrought from a rigid text,
presbyphobia as vision quest.
Words. Mere words.
Spells never cast.
Logic overwhelming raw feeling;
the science of dysfuction.
Mere words...