Im like a broken typewriter, yet no one cares to fix me because they have a new keyboard.
I continue to collect theoretical dust in a metaphorical attic.
I constantly hear typing from fingers whom used to grace me with such ease and poise.
The typing speeds and slows as breathing speeds and slows.
through the cracks on the floor I can see the glowing light of the terminal screen, changing colors every now and again.
As I sit in the dark I watch the sun rises and sets, with every one of them lasting longer than expected, and longer than they should.
My keys begin to fall off of my cream-colored body, now blotched with red... rust.
As they fall on the floor they spell out a single three lettered word; B-Y-E.
The paper still within my cartridge, Once blank, now filled with bold u's and i's.
As I watch my last sunset, I notice the shadows begin to dance around me.
Following a melody I have yet to understand..
As the darkness falls upon the attic room, I tear the paper from myself and watch my keys hit the cold floor, the musty room now filled with the smell of... rust.
The shadows that continue dancing begin to sing, a lovely tune filled with harmony and rhythm.
A dim light appears above one of the dancing darkness and blinks brighter as it grows in size, almost as if it approaching me in a friendly manner.
the light takes my hand and spins me, we dance through the shadows to the music that they produce from their non-existing voices.
Slowly slipping through the finger tips of the brightly glowing light I know that I am no longer alone here.
YOU ARE READING
A Poets' Rose
PuisiPoems for the broken hearted and the hearts of joy. listen well, I'll try not to be hobbledehoy. Some nights will pass without a visitor; some nights will pass when you wish it was her. So listen to these stories of loss and gain and maybe we'll bot...
