They got to me in the end.
I thought I had escaped them
with my books and poems, with my thinking.
They got to me in the hidden inside place
where I live as myself, snide whispering voices
I had forgotten, still influencing.
They got to me with made up stories,
make believe that lurked and grew in secret
only to appear in a hateful moment.
They got to me, they tore through
sense and goodness, until I found myself
parroting bad black lies, instinctively.
They got to me, just when I thought I was free
From dusty, dirty old books, from this
ugly stupidity. They got to me.