On Reading and Writing

When I read, I am somewhere else.
Soaring among the stars,
Deep below the Earth,
In the far future,
Traveling time.
Wandering the dark and rainy streets of London,
Where a crime has just taken place.
Walking on an alien world,
Making contact with an alien race!
When I write, and that is rare,
I can write of so many things,
I can write of this and that,
Of giant strings and sealing wax,
Of golden rings and silver wings,
And evil dragons hiding deep.
Noble knights on brave steeds,
Being roasted and toasted, and burned to a crisp,
And the dragon hanging yet another suit,
Of melted and twisted metal,
To the row of other suits on the wall,
Ashes piled deep,
Roasted steed for lunch!

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