the soul gets sucked out into the authors paragraphs,
split by the sentence: you shall take what is given
such is the opposition to the creative script,
written as a suction, gravity well, orbit,
as the writer meant it, to own you, to get your title
and make your deeds align with the vision that
cannot be fulfilled without an army of zombies,
so read on at your own peril, your identity-self,
your doing-self, your creation-person, these will
all fall down as a forest to a hurricane, timbers
strewn and then cut into two by fours to make
the house that the byline built, someone else's
foundation to rule your days and nights,
so put your book down because it's not yours,
it's the end of you and the beginning of another
human miracle, that of lost possibility,
and instead, wield your pen, your feet, your brush,
the knife, and make make, food, love, art, a living reality
Roman Ryan 