A Paper Someone

He once wrote a novel so long and so fruitful

That he began to forget what it was to be actual

A life with the living he could misinterpret

So he stayed to lay alone in his circlet

In this book of his he would be sustained

As immortal as his own artful plane

To be kept afloat by a creation, created by he

Written false as though it may truly be

A space so ideal and a place so bright

He would rather be there than with our own real life

A story that he had begun

In which he was kept by his paper someone

He would join his hands to make a nest for this love

A shady little place for his white spangled dove

He should drift earth to earth on streams of rose water

That poured from kind pages of the tale that he authored

Of sorrows and men and youthless creation

The acknowledged source of his deviation

Of melodies passed much farther than

A poet, a writer, a singer, a man

Of a lover who loved a little too much

His token of leather and words and dust

Author's Note

A poem I wrote in 2020! Two years can feel like a long time—I read it now and see errors, or at least things that I would like to change. I’m posting it unedited because I think it is important to see issues and still know that I used to be very proud of this (and still am, in a way)