Elicit young dreams, distant and fleeting,
where book magic was spirited and real.
Neverland pirates and hobbits meeting
in enchanted worlds, wondrous, surreal.
Choose your own adventure through space and time,
pitting good versus evil—who will reign?
Thundercats and Baggins both appeal
when the magic’s gone, only mundane remains.

The wheel of time, rotation completing,
fading dreams, insert the latest newsreel.
College indoctrination, work beating,
no one to stand by me in the unreal.
Now that I’m big, they’re taking it piecemeal.
It floats away, Terabithia wanes.
Recalling my childhood memories reveals
when the magic’s gone, only mundane remains.

Time wears ever on, and I am retreating
back into myself, my inner child’s zeal.
Strangers not needed, now self-defeating,
deflating remarks, an inner ordeal.
Push it off—all part of this real-world beal.
Not God or magic, but science is thane,
or so they tell you, but I know the deal:
when the magic’s gone, only mundane remains.

My zest and gusto return as I heal.
But if you find yourself going astray,
remember my warning bell—my dark peal:
when the magic’s gone, only mundane remains.

Photo by Ale Matei on Unsplash

A ballade is a strict Old French fixed verse form that usually consists of 28 lines divided into three eight-line stanzas and a four-line concluding stanza called an envoi.

I think the poem speaks for itself. As we get older, we tend to lose that magic that made the world so frightening, beautiful, and surreal. It was that way for me, anyhow. I remember building fortresses with my brother high up in the trees around my childhood home, and playing fantastical games that stretched our imaginations. Over time, life happens, and that all falls away. Now that I’m writing more, I can feel myself trying to reclaim that youth—trying to rediscover the magic of being a child so I can play today.

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