Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Tapping keys to leave a trace Of myself upon a page, I linger there until My mind empties the waste. Discarded phrases falling Though cyberspace so vast, No thought of destination, No readers within grasp. Just mumbled, jumbled letters In patterns I have sewn, Find places to land in silence, Mute remains among the bones. "A life sealed much too quickly," No one's good words do say. No one wants to view the remnants They simply walk away. Just another discarded memory Lies moldering within the grave Of worn-out phrases, petty musings, And words that die unsaved. So, consider the unread writer A mere mechanic of the keys For nothing that he ever types Gains life when no one sees. He wrenches through the letters. He hammers with his heart. He views his own creation And the beauty of its parts. But when he seeks a soul to share The hand of mutual trust, The stranger has no time to spare And leaves the work to rust.
Posted by Frank Thompson at 10:18 AM