End Illusion

The future dictates the past.
The past doesn’t know it yet.
Once it does, it will.

The future is chivalrous.
The past gets all the credit
That what happened did.

Sometimes we almost feel it,
The magician’s black-gloved hand
Producing the coin of us
Like moonrise from night’s mountains.

We’re misdirected
So easily, however.
Distracted by the white glow
Of being, we never know.