The Illusionist painted a picture,
Out of words and stars,
Of a dream he had not dreamed,
But only now had began to see.

And in this vision,
Times and days quite clearly,
Faded from black to grey as light became one,
And happiness none.

So entrapped was his audience,
In his colorless vision,
That they became infected too,
On his soulless mission.

His skill was unmatched,
Seen neither since or hence,
And as the books burns,
And the flags were raised we reminisced.

Of a time before this,
When our liberties were still for us to list.
Now all we have is the absence, the void, the mist.
Where we meet the Illusionist.