Rhyming Barks

A poem begins as a dream. Then a sketch is made.
Thoughts travel through a mind, before their display,
a two dimensional photo, when the pieces are put in place.
Then the characters look at you, glaring from a page.
"I don't believe it, you said? This is really not me?"
Then call it fiction and sit in your seat.
A play is being made, that reminds you of you?
The thoughts were in you, before they were exclaimed?
If the boot fits wear it; play along with the game.
You are squirming? Is that a sign of guilt?
Is your smile hand made, to disguise shift of your thoughts?
Were ploys lifted from your planner,
that were to make toys of us all?
Hark.
A sketch is being made, to inform the audience of thoughts,
coming off a mirror, that echo in the dark.
It is not a growl, just silent frozen ink,
that could be turned into noise, if someone chooses to think,
and utter there existence, breathing out rhyming barks.