By Samantha Brown and Jeff McIntosh
If ever there was a wiz of a man.
A wildly fantastical man who’s mind was made of straw. If he only he had the nerve, the courage, the direction, to allow the ascension of truth. Instead he stands witness to falsehoods and deceit.
Inside, a perplexed mind, overwrought consciousness and soul all weighed heavily upon the Technicolor world he made as his own.
He could no longer maintain the façade;
eventually buying into the lies he sold.
It began with the bones.
Whisper tales to a dead man;
nothing will be revealed.
The truth and the lies you feed them are safe;
dead men say no secrets.
They keep faith, ever silent and watchful,
never mind the whispers; desperation bleeds denial.
Somewhere between the lies and the truth
lays the heart of the wiz that was.
His deception continued,
the light of day and truth being denied them.
A mechanized head watching over a gleaming city
is not so far-fetched, considering the present face of evil.
Gilded in Technicolor, it becomes easy to believe the lies.
No wizard whizzed behind the curtain that was;
just a man turning to dust with the rest of us.
That veil kept the illusion complete;
removed, the lie he bought was brought bare.
Before himself, he was exposed.
Just a man, immersed in his own lies after falling from the sky.