The Paper Men

We lived here once,
rather we were alive here
once on these high plains,
before the paper men
found us wandering
too far from our spirits.
Reality was made of letters
written on the dotted line
they claimed; behind appearances the printed page.
We signed our names away,
followed on a paper trail.
From ivy covered halls, looming
on the highest hills, we looked
out through thick-lensed books;
the world spread out, surveyed
and lined, unfolded, like a map.
We watched our spirits wandering,
looking for their homes;
they will never find us now;
the landmarks have all changed,
we've come to look like script.
We can see our lost faces
drifting in the evening breeze;
we go after them,
but they've forgotten who we were and run away.
The paper men have offered us their masks,
but when we put them on
we have the same eyes.