I feel the pull, hear the siren call
Of books that push me into free fall,
No sense of fear, or time or place
In ocean abyss or the depths of space.
I meet mercenaries, tyrants, a bloody pirate
Delve into a psychotic mind and yet
Retain my own identity.
Its the people, society,
That cause strain
Pressurise my poor brain,
So that all day long I toil on
To conform to some vague old norm:
Of living in pigeon-lofts in a city
Of losing all freedom, the elasticity
Of a flexible, enquiring mind.
I work all day pounding laptop keys
Like a galley slave on grecian seas.
Its only in books that I live at ease
Vicariously experiencing whatever I please.