From times where what was real is now but mist.
We, servants of the path, must see their crown,
Yet, in truth, we know not that they exist.
Some say that they are sages from the past,
That they bear secret teachings for the soul.
Despite the threat of time they do outlast
And keep as comfort their cold heart's control.
Others speak of meetings on astral plane,
Where beings have no flesh in which to dwell.
They are real or just part of our own brain.
It matters not; we are under their spell.
Perhaps they are but form to that fair light
That all upon this path see in their life.
In place of angels we now have a blight
That sets our brothers deep in endless strife.
And hidden in the depths of our own mind
Are what we want to see, and hear, and know.
These silent masters are so hard to find,
And in their place there's little we can show.
Magicians mutter what they think is real;
Azazel takes his place across the land.
Whenever we lose grip upon the wheel
We use this slight to mind, this sleight of hand.