This

This is my keyboard - formatting electrons,
Like a barber sweeping the shop floor,
Collecting all black strands of discarded meaning -
Both earning their livelihood,
With clicks here,
Hair clips there.

Over pages that don’t curl like they used to,
Behind a smooth glass window,
Words waving at me,
With a childlike demeanor,
They parade forwards,
Then disappear into a back-spaced nothingness,

Deleted from existence.



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