The Writers

The Writers

 

The writers found me sleeping on their hollow hills
They drew me in and showed me wonders:
Places I could never render in pencil and paint
Foods I did not dare to eat
Pleasures I had never before imagined
They held me for a day and returned me after seven years

The writers have infected me
Corrupted my blood with the cholera of creativity
And the righteous rabies that wakes me at four A.M.
Foaming at the mind
Afraid to drink reality

The writers have trapped me
In their gothic mountaintop castle
Despite the villagers’ warnings not to go near.
They hypnotized me with burning eyes
And the perversions of the elite,
Threw their cloaks about my head
And sank their fangs into my throat.

And now I have no choice
Except to become one of them.

 

1 January 2024