The Great Escapist
GRACE AMOS
once upon a time,
not in a kingdom of stone, nor in the hush between stories,
not in the cradle of myth or the rhyme of a song—
there lived a Man, if you could call Him such,
who draped His life in glamour and Magic.
i was the first to believe.
He was a Prestidigitator—
not one chained by water, knotted in ropes,
but a weaver of absence, a keeper of smoke,
who conjured illusions with His Hands,
Hands He believed were divine,
turning emptiness into spectacle,
polishing stillness until it glittered with lies.
to be touched by Him was a gift—
the touch of God bestowed through His fingertips,
though all He clutched was never His to keep.
His “Disappearing Acts” were quieter than any held breath,
filled with gestures of grandeur and borrowed devotion.
He did not vanish with smoke bombs
or slip beneath trapdoors into the velvet night.
there were no flowers tucked into His sleeves,
no black hat gleaming beneath the light—
instead, He vanished with promises.
He unstitched the seams of His own life,
and each vow He made was a coin palmed and hidden
before you even noticed it was gone.
He conjured gold from ledgers and castles from paper,
announcing His salvation in ink and coin—
but when the walls collapsed,
He bowed low and named it Fate.
i wish i still believed.
(because i know you still do.)
He called it bravery—
a costume silk-stitched from silence,
a cloak of consequence turned inside out.
He wore absence the way other Men wear legacy,
and when He whispered, “Watch Me vanish,”
the World leaned in—
and clapped.
He swallowed air and spat out applause,
His tongue fluent in curtains and exit signs.
He kept mirrors in His mouth,
so when you searched for truth
you saw only yourself—
reflected in the shape of His excuses.
He built a tale around being a victim,
with complaint and blame the pillars that held it up.
so even when chains closed round His wrists
He crowned Himself Innocent,
as if iron could pass for gold,
and cast out the “villains” who had succumbed to greed,
begging for grapes and wine
while it was His Hand
that signed.
in time, He built a showcase around guilt,
drawing curtains not of red but of prison bars,
shaping a stage where time was rationed like bread.
“look at Me,” He cried, “I am trapped, I am punished,
the door is locked!”
but the Lock was His own,
and the Key—
He mailed it Home,
with no return address.
this was never punishment.
this was performance.
and the people—His Audience—
sat in the shadows He never turned to face.
they carried the scraps while He clutched the spotlight,
counted the debts He left in weak Hands,
millions of shards swept from the floor,
while He rehearsed again and again
His final Disappearing Act.
and now, in the long quiet,
lights guttered, the crowd gone—
only a Hush remains,
settling in the hollow where a Man should be.
in the end, the great escapist did not vanish,
but was bound within the tale of His own demise.
He called it misfortune, He called it betrayal,
but those who watched from the dark,
Hands raw from sweeping the mess He made—
They knew better.
They knew no trick had been played—
only the shadow of His own Hand
cast against the wall.
i tell it softly, for you
because i know you still see Him as the hero of the tale.
and that’s okay.
Grace Amos (she/her) is a professional and established musician and writer from Greater Western Sydney. She writes with unfiltered honesty, drawn to the raw and messy parts of emotion. Her work doesn’t flinch from truth, judgment, or calling things what they are, using both sound and language to confront what is taboo.
