If there’s a self beyond this world, or in
it hidden well, it will then see these lines
and know what truth I tell. I often pine
for it, and hardly know where to begin…
Free-ranging worlds slipped out of time, all new
and all so clear, earths grown and sight to see
in rhyme labyrinthine shadows of the true,
the twisting dreamy paths of fantasy.
If you could follow all that stilted diction,
perhaps you’ll tell me, what’s the point of fiction?
Why hide yourself behind appearance, and
why never be so clear? Why charm, and feign,
and act, pretend, and torture at the brain
that only seeks to fully understand?
I do suspect your motives, self, and though
if you’re there we are not so much the worse,
it’s true, so much the better all this show,
but I suspect you’ve got some tastes perverse.
For why go toy so at a mortal mind,
if you know surely what you’d quite soon find?
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