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The writer of great lines an idealist
sits, the world structured by his disposition,
he of it; there, the exhibitionist
to prove him; times, events, the exposition
of his impressions, of his views, depicted,
characterised: the world of Dickens, Shakespeare,
of Shaw or Wells, Fitzgerald, each constricted
within whose soul; that each with eye and ear
perceives from that perceived, and makes a fiction
of a reality, that sells, but strangely
is not. The world, you see, is God's non-fiction,
most pens abhor, whose wielders feel un-gainly
in; words as sand build castles on a beach
that tides subdue, dissolve, till flatness reach.
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