red drips down onto a dried landscape
eyes roll back under the cover of lids
she was granted front row tickets
the tattered edges of a film play
fingers dance unconsciously
tap, tap, tapping to the music
as the credits roll, an introduction
to the actors who wish to play
their story familiar yet foreign
a force compels her to write it
words extracted from her view
their worlds torn, then united
petals of pages fly from her mind
drifting out to tables and screens
is it real or is it fake, you ask
the answer? somewhere in-between
what you see is the reflection
of one mind lived and one not
the art reveals the mortal
whose imagination imitates all
Lisa M. Gott 