A Master of the mesmeric act walks amongst us,
hidden and stalking our every move.
He is silent, swift and charming,
inhumanly charismatic and pleasant.
But no, the Mesmer isn't normal, no he isn't just well trained.
The Mesmer is gifted with a wonderful skill,
the influence of mental thoughts.
Bodily resistance will be futile;
no scholar can defend against his art either.
He is strong, and a look into his eyes,
oh how brave,
means destabilisation and denial of our movements, thoughts,
existence.  
Our soul is attracted, so very in need to listen to him, the Master.
He distracts, he hinders and he bends the fabric of reality to meet his ends.

This isn't magic, dear friend please believe, his illusion is real.
Gold real, hate real, body real, deadly real.
Domination, we can never break free, his glare,
makes us believe and bow down.
His stares,
God bless,
kills.

He sits above us all, above buildings,
Master of the mind he is,
unable to comprehend his own gift.
His fate, his life and his,
laugh if you must,
his destiny.
Looking ahead, his eyes dilate,
tapping on his gift, he creates for himself,
a friend.
For Master of not, that much he lacks.
And it hurts.
No one to speak to,
to touch and hold.
No one but his illusions,
but he isn't fooled.