The Beautiful Imposter — New Poems

The magician came to the birthday
 to stir the course of smiles
 and oh—happy days.
 The magician came to the birthday
 only to face
 the forgetfulness
 of personal reality.
 He pulled ribbons from a hollow hat—
 not magic,
 just memory
 pretending to be color.
 Children clapped.
 Mothers smiled.
 And he bowed,
 as if applause
 could fill
 the silence in his chest.
 The cake was cut.
 Candles flickered.
 He lit them all with sleight of hand—
 but none
 could touch
 the dark behind his eyes.

 In the mirror
 of a helium balloon,
 he caught a glimpse
 of who he might’ve been—
 before the costume,
 before the vanishing acts,
 before delight
 became
 a duty.
 He lingered
 after the laughter faded,
 sweeping up confetti
 like broken promises.
 One shoe off,
 one glove stained—
 he watched the last balloon drift
 into dusk,
 a fragile echo
 of everything he could never hold.
 He packed the doves
 who once knew how to fly.
 Now they blinked
 in silence.
 Even their wings
 had forgotten
 what sky meant.

 The parents never asked his name.
 The children forgot him by morning.
 And in the cracked rearview
 of his van,
 he rehearsed a smile
 he hadn’t believed
 in years.
 Magic was never real.
 But neither
 was he.

✓ Verified human-written