New Portion:
First, a great friend wrote this one when I told her that I had writers block on the next poem:
The Illusionist:
Illusions and magic are your forte, your prime
They whisper a marvelous tune
With beguiling mystery, an achievement of time
The records are won all too soon
They jest "It's a hobby; grow out like old shorts"
But I see dedication and ease
The cards keep coming, decks scattered around
For which I'll continually tease
And now you combine two gifts of your own
Find rhythm for life's glitter show
A poem to describe a passionate trait
Keep the wonder, amazement aglow
Good luck with your phrases, the rolling of die
Trick the eye, flash a light, laugh along
As the audience gasps, then a frustrated sigh,
Suspensefully on stage is where you belong
Now, the one I wrote after that:
Mundus Vult Decepi:
Mundus vult Decipi
mens est quod suus 'captionem
Quando illusiónibus facere tenaci notio praeconceptis
hominum mentes incipiunt detegentem
The world wants to be decieved
the mind is it's trap
When illusions do grip a notion preconcieved
men's minds begin to unwrap
No matter the motive, no matter the form
the soul of the art is how you perform
toying and leading trust astray
only to reveal another way
It is an art to conceal art
to show a trick is to hide it
making your way right to the heart
never give up, don't ever quit
Ars est celare artem
ut appareat frustra absconderunt
faciens viam vestram ius ad cor
nunquam redono in perpetuum quietos
Mundus vult decipi -- the world wants to be deceived