I envy the fictitious

Who need not give a care

To the path their lives will take,

With an author standing there.

I envy the fictitious,

Who always do possess–

Some secret, hidden insight–

Yet I scramble for much less.

I envy the fictitious,

Who never can do wrong;

They always see a happy end

After journeys oh-so long.

I envy the fictitious

Whose creators choose to grant

Their ever faithful vigilance–

What slips through my frail hands.

I envy the fictitious,

And yet it seems to be

That those lifeless, sorry people

Should be envious of me.

Copyright Sarah Davidson 2020