An Ode to Computers

The screen is pure black

It emerges from sleep in a lightning instant,

is shiny and flat as a sheet.

It must be turned on, ignited

and the fingers keep typing, typing

alternation of depression and release,

and that is how we get things done.

Every night the world is made anew.

Solder the priest that binds wires,

pluses and minuses

pour in from around the globe

and in the shadow, little fireflies

sentinels that guard our dreams


I’m just ten posts away from my 100th post.


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