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
