Master of illusion.
A poets betrayal.
The words of conscious exclamations.
The love blinded by words as sweet as honey, fresh from the claws of a predator.

Master of illusion.
A Realists interpretation of the pain.
It builds in the foundation of the spirit.
It lasts longer than the words exclaimed from the tops of the mountains.

Master of illusion.
An imagination gone awry.
Living life as if blinded by the power and the glory.
To have it crumble at your hands into dust and bone, never to feel the omniscience.

Master of illusion.
Arms encircling the body that once was carressed by the eyes.
Living a life of solitude and solidarity.
Only to have that solidarity and solitude vanish at the single breath of a new morning dew.

The Sun rises, the Moon falls. The world turns and the people laugh. They continue along a path that seems destined never to end. I watch...I watch...I wait...I wait for the destiny to reveal to me that path that they enjoy. How is it that it has completely negated my existence? How is it that the jovial, emphatic being is theirs and not my own? The illusion remains a symbol of sleepless nights and ponderances that overwhelm my senses.

I wait for the illusion to end. I watch for the signs of dawn to come. I wait for the first song bird to call out to my soul. I watch for the emotion to whisk me away in a whirlwind of light and happiness.

(I used to be better at these)