Two riders breached her low, eternal wall
                         of books. Tiny, no bigger than the thumb
                         that turns pages. One was long, lean, the small
                         one meant comic relief, she knew. She’s numb
                         to anything but words on paper. Her eyes
                         watch. She knows, perfectly well, they’re unreal.
  
                         Her books, some tiny, some thick—loved, well-thumbed,
                         unknown. Still, all their pretty words fell
                         from her drying brain. She’s been known to hum
                         a poem’s tune and dance as if a holy spell
                         had tranced her twice. Her cool and empty home
                         kept ghosts she didn’t enjoy. So, rich tomes
                         
                         turned pages for her—long sentences, small
                         words—it never mattered. She couldn’t walk
                         outside, so she played imaginary dolls—
                         acting alive, speaking—speaking book talk.
                         She loved French best. She couldn’t understand
                         a word, but they stroked her hair, kissed her hands.
  
                         For comic relief, she’d build tiny, dumb
                         forts beside her chair and watch language play
                         its game. But those walls never broke. True, some
                         tilted open. No hero found a way
                         to escape. If these spoke, their tinny, high 
                         voices missed her ears. She thought they might fly
  
                         off. Anyway, they’re words on paper. Thin lies,
                         she knew. They had to be. Once, she leaned down
                         but her breath brushed them—almost—into flight.
                         So, she’d rise, smiling, glad she’d found
                         them (they’d been coming for years, exploring
                         her secret castles). She dropped an old ring
  
                         and watched, knowing very well they’re unreal.
                         The small one panicked, the tall one shouted
                         curses too high to hear. Her hands revealed
                         a different page, softer words. The tall one clouts
                         the small guy’s ear. She lifts the ring. A horn calls:
                         Two riders flee her breached mind, her cracked wall.