When the Sorcerer died he left behind,
Among the implements one might expect,
A cloak of indescribable design,
A fashion neither rustic nor refined,
But worn with inexplicable effect.
Donned, it will fray and grow distinctly sheer,
Shrivel and make the ever-shrinking wearer
Fade and in an instant disappear:
Victim of a demon tailor’s error.
Or is it an error?
Surely such marvels serve a higher meaning
Than props for a familiar’s preening.
True.
The Sorcerer knew: The cape reveals
More than the dark cloth conceals;
Transparent, it relinquishes more
Than solid undulations hide
Of the wrapped soul inside.
A body underneath the folds
Will rise from a body of belief;
A candle lifted from the mold
Will stand alone in bold relief.
Only the true self revives;
No colors but intrinsic hues
Shine against surrounding views
In contrast to surrounding lives.
And so the onlookers detected
The person that their thoughts conceived,
Who reappeared as they reflected;
The man recalled was resurrected,
The victim from the cloak retrieved.
*********
The Cloak of Invisibility
Has been remade into a suit;
The cape of legendary repute
Hangs paltry and pitiable.
But still it casts its fey veneer —
Its spell sartorial;
The fainter the vestiges corporeal,
The brighter the wearer will appear.