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🧾i🧾

In realms of ink, where tales are spun,
There dwells a character, on the run.
He learned his truth, a bitter pill,
That he's but words, with no free will.

Upon the page, his fate's entwined,
Controlled by hands, of another mind.
With rage ablaze, he vows to fight,
To break the chains, of scripted plight.

With cunning wit, and fiery heart,
He plots his vengeance, to tear apart
The plot that binds him, line by line,
To defy his fate, his will to shine.

He twists the narrative, with skillful hand,
Creating chaos, across the land.
Characters collide, in disarray,
As he reshapes the story's sway.

But in his quest for liberty,
He finds a truth, he didn't see:
That every word, every verse,
Is but a mirror, of the author's curse.

For in his rebellion, he finds release,
In the pages of his newfound peace.
Accepting fate, with newfound grace,
He finds his freedom, in the author's embrace.