The Last Wizzard

Guardian of mysteries, none can see what he knows
Draped in robes of starlight, scholarly beard of snow
A gentle spirit but a holder of great might
Weaving the threads of destiny in endless fabrics of time

With the soul of a giant and a heart of gold
The wonderment of a child whose stories yet told
He spoke in rhymes of timeless lore
But as stars must fade, so must tales of old
A twinkle in his eye, a tear falls on his beard
The final sunset, he knows his end is near
He travels towards the sky, it fades to black from blue
Back to his home amongst comets and the Moon

His fingers flicked tales of old and new
Of dragons that chuckled and fairies that flew
With his magic staff carved from the core of an oak
He conjured countless mysteries simply in single strokes

The wizard looks upon his starry map
Crafting futures while mending pasts
In his hand he holds his great staff
Gripping tight as he ponders then laughs
He knows he's the last wizard indeed
Not a trace of fear, not a speck of greed
As sure as spring will turn the hills a verdant green
His magic will persist, omnipotent yet unseen