A man reads a story
To get lost in it.
Yet we do not worry
When he actually does
He is unable to tell
The difference between
What is fake, and living Hell.
He escapes with reason.
He escapes to his sanctuaries,
These paper castles protect
But they crumb to mortuaries
With the flick of a single match.
The match is held firmly
Between a pointer and thumb
Of the one called “family.”
The one, meant, to replace.
Primitive Poetry 