The Dangers of Fictions
The lives of others I can not but steal.
Their thoughts, their dreams, their loves, are all in books inscribed,
Ripe for the taking. Their minds fit mine like new skins.
It does not hurt them: book folk are not real,
And I need their worlds, for my eyes described
One jagged, where crimes can’t all be sins.
But my mind’s stretched, sagging without their shapes:
Written on my soul their words are transcribed.
Once I’m done in my mind they still lurk
Holding my soul’s too hard while round they traipse
I am patchwork
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