Delphi burns parchment, spells,
written in red ink, maybe blood,
by the man who believes
he possesses arcane power.

A wisp of ash floats up from a tin,
then, kite-like, swirls through the wind,
tailless, uncoordinated.

Many miles away, the man coughs,
foams at the mouth, his eyes bulge,
before he spits out a pretzel
stuck in his windpipe.

Grains of damp salt fall off
the once crisp, baked biscuit
and sink deep into the carpet.