Mirage

The lustrous roses that I see,Are they as real as they seem to be?Are those petals truly red,Or is it all but not red?

Is this a trick of my vision,Or the creator's deception?This illusion, "you" and "me,"A shadow cast in time's embrace.

The playwright, too, a cunning sage,A master of the mystic stage,Hides all behind the silken veil,Revealing but an entangling trail.

So intricate, the woven play,The player could get lost astray.But rise above the grand display,The player shall fade away.