those little lenses flicker,
as if they’re in a dream.
the heart, it races quicker,
caught up in the scheme.
you hear him… even snicker,
at humor never seen.
the common-man points his finger,
at black ink upon a page.
he escapes his life to linger,
on some fantastic stage.
immortal is the bringer,
who manages to assuage…
the discontented,
with his fiction.