fiction and its discontents

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.

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