I no longer know the language
the ink in my pen has dried.
And when I rub my fingers together,
crumb of bytes fall off.
I have no complaints whatsoever.
There's nothing to hide.
Even joy is bare.
Sadness will always be veiled..
Poetry's returned to my life.
This city lets me walk around by myself.
I like to walk around.
I walk.
5 comments:
And that's when the poetry comes. For me too. Is it the time for one's own thoughts? The beat of one's feet, imposing a meter upon the random words that flicker though one's consciousness? Dunno. I like walking, though. And I like this poem, too, fingers...
Very nice indeed. Your fingers never tire. Your metamechanical hands are aiming higher.
This one's pretty.
ur back! thank heavens!
hey...
you're back...!!
love
leaf
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