What is real and what is not?
There is not one being who is certain,
Though many claim to have the knowledge.
With wide eyes and eager faces,
Much like a hypnotist learning the trade,
They absorb what the listener expects
And wring themselves out;
The magic exists only within.
By trying to preserve it,
We wrap ourselves
In the downy soft fabric
Of time and space -
A most fatal flaw,
Forever sealing our mortality.
The sole shred of salvation
Is the tiny speck of insanity
Each of us carries -
The ability to disregard the audience.