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Illusionists
Poets every night
And a masquerade
Hiding under shades,
Boas, glitter, dark masks
That are paying dear for lines
Which cover their scarred faces
Drink them, feel, entertain yourself
But still know your own mind deep inside
Poets every night forgetful want to be
While pretending to speak of own minds
How incredible are these illusionists of the dark
They master what is misleading, confusing so well
Yet should they take off their feathers, cloaks and masks
Keep on writing, inspiration, and if so can they ever be gone, these poets?
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