See me in print
Yeah, that is me
Or so I think
Can I really be read
Like an old magazine
I am the dream
Add to it what you may
Maybe one day
You will be able to then say
I felt like I was there
Right there with him
Singing that upbeat battle hymn
Forget how grim
Or how the words made him look so damn gloriously slim
Along the absence of image
Can a mirror
Ever offer up a game of scrimmage
Played in Black and in White
Whether or not you score
Behind the door
There is the light
How much duller
Threatens the typed joys of color
What they don’t know
Let them make up
Dyslexia can be like snow
When an author drinks from a dirty cup
What really fades
Doesn’t require shades
Throw yourself on the blade
Save the anecdote that you made
//