How I prefer the authors who
fail to pen a character with a
voice. Hundreds of pages
loop around this person,
creature--a world encircling
those too strong for words. The
Dantes and Picoults sprinkle the
covers I devour. Curled
around a half-written
novel and blaze, my voice and
mind as useless and
thin as paper. A character peeks
between chapters that detail
others--other forms, faces, and
lives, until the pages shroud
it like a star. Do I love these tales
because they fail me? Fancying
novels and poems without leaders,
I dance the void of hells and cancers--
masochism at its most pleasurable.
Inclined to graze eternity without
speech or action, I could find
happiness and you.
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