He sits weaving his craft
Across a vacant stage
The players long since past
From time and space
Products of a different age

The world around
Holds no secrets
For his nimbles fingers
And Seeing eyes

The mysteries that so amuse us
But mere slight of hand
For this silent illusionist
So he turns to darker crafts

Delving where none should go
Into the world of mist and shadow
Where souls are said to roam
There but for his great show

The empty stage is filling now
The actors pulled from the grave
Yet again caught in the great weave
Called life, Puppets dancing

Strings pulling shadowed forms
For the amusement of a bored crowd
Awed only by what they do not know
And what this madman brings to the show.