Is life not but an illusion
That is to say but in the moment
And all that once was is gone
As if it was only an apparition
That the imagination conjured
The future equally proportioned
Unformed fantasies to become
Visions grand and endless too
Incited by hallucinations yet
Visions perceived faintly perhaps
Through rose-coloured glasses
Phantasm come clearly in view
Their shadows cast in timely awe
Only at last in twain providence
Displays the spectres conclusive
The distant mirage rippling
Finds itself in barren view anon
And the delusions close kept
Fall to reveal prestidigitation
An essence deemed surreal, gone