The Illusionist
The Illusionist Dwelling in the tangled labyrinth is the rover, In the realm of time and space an eternal wanderer, The inventor of innumerable creators, Having the shape of their creators And codes of life, mutable always, Suiting the beastly humane ways. Where the hell is the hell? In the abyss like well with corpses' smell Or the complex nerve cell Where all evils dwell. To once reach heaven Never do those seven. The heaven and those seven, Mere cookies baked in his oven. How did the imaginary lines that divide Relatives, contingent on where they abide And twenty-four and sixty slices Of the earth's spin come to life? After this grand illusion He too started living in delusion.