You have cut out our future in paper templates;
they are set on the stone table.
Just waiting to be drawn around.
With little room for error or deviation.
Pre-cut paper houses wait to be constructed by your hand alone;
and a line of paper dolls wait to inhabit.

But I only see paper dolls playing make believe in a paper house.
Red ink bleeds steadily through the pages;
permanent,
unchangeable;
cementing the paper house.

I refuse to cut templates!
I can't even cut a straight line.
I never keep within a guideline;
my imagination takes me to better conclusions.
Why infuse with ink,
when you can draw in pencil?