The Prestige

The Prestige

The night unfurls an ancient stage,
where silver‑laced lights swallow fame,
and two tall figures, black and white,
whisper envy into the night.

The first, a gentleman of mystique,
expects the crowd to gasp and speak;
his wand, a glint of polished steel,
swings as the world tries to conceal.

His rival, scarred by betrayal's brew,
hide his heart behind a mask of rue.
He pulls a bird, death’s echo “tiz‑tuz,”
and every gasp is a dagger’s buzz.

They trade devotions to a show,
where truth and trick are quick‑twitches,
and each illusion, perfect hymn,
keeps the audience forever grim.

In soot‑filled rooms, a silent vow:
none may know the wounds, the prow.
The pressure on—an unspoken need
for applause, for something beyond creed.

The villain's arc is bleak and sharp,
his final trick a blasphemous art;
a mirror where a soul is split,
and love is folded into guilt.

Above the pits of gossiping dames,
the truth drips beneath the flames,
and the poets spend the day in lies,
to fill the void where reality dies.

In closing the lights dim, the curtain falls,
leaving only names in hallowed halls;
and yet, the theatres linger with,
the dream of “The Prestige.”