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.
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