As science evolves
what pieces of ourselves
are lost to the past?
We no longer need strength,
willingly sacrificing our brawn.
When a program composes
lyrics and novels
where lies the creative spirit?
If not guided by the stroke of the hand
how can it be named art?
The hammer is now the pen,
the steel-driver roiling in the grave
as the mind follows muscle into history.
My heart, too, will burst
from fervent resistance.
YOU ARE READING
Sitting Here Thinking (2020-2022)
PoetryPoetry of varying subjects and construction, the second of three. Written while sitting anywhere, lost in thought about everything and anything. Accolades: #1 Thought Provoking 2/26/2020 #1 Self-Reflection 3/22/2020 #1 Creative Writing 7/24/2020 #3...
