Unknown Mother Goose

The artist surrounded by empty chairs, not a soul can see him

The figurehead sings for him, adored by all. They are nothing without him, but he is nothing without her

The mask is torn off, yet her silhouette still lurks in his shadow

The artist is gone, now only the figurehead remains, playing his songs in perpetuity. Yet, the screen cracks, the illusion is compromised as the soul of the writer shines through the avatar