Hidden in the wispy shadows of night
a voice calls out, the antithesis of light.
"Come to me, come to me" it whispers,
"Do not drink of that cup".
"It is with me tonight, that you should sup."
"I can give you food and wine and all you desire"
and the man ran to the voice amongst the funeral pyres.
And swallowing down every last morsel,
He found his hunger grew ever the moreso.
For he had dined not on the truth of light,
But instead had wandered into a terrible plight!
The food had no substance and the wine naught but air,
When he called out to the voice there was no one there.
Frantically he looked and what did he see?
The ethereal, the unreal, simulacra's fantasy.
Though what we see may not be and the din harsh to the ear,
The bright light of truth will burn simulacra's thin veneer.