Friday morning


I sit and think of

     programs that

assign values to

     words that are wrote


love and hate and in envy are

     words that of passion may be

but value nothing to

     the values of the machine


angles slopes and rectangles

     roaring sounds growing louder

winds that blow and clothes that flutter

     things of value they may see


flowing curves of tender flesh

     rising above clean white lines

bright blue eyes sparkling bright

     flesh being speared by burning light


hearts that beat with beating flutter

     longing felt some how deep inside

burning passion consuming flesh

     of these computers feel nothing


as I sit the words I write

     on screen of black and white

speaking words into a mic

     parchment not nor quill pen


oceans roar on screen back

     waves crash upon the rocks

clouds above of reds and grays

     lit dimly by setting sun


no man-made things of lines and squares

     shining chrome painted black

backwards turning of the wheels

     and guitar not played


arrows fletched in ribbons long

     words in blood wrote upon

shot into the shining sun

     traveling through the coming time


writing words for computers to read

     caring not what people may see

dreams soar not upon the lines

     no passions burned with the thoughts


what to write and what to be

     what is the purpose that I see

will my words count for ever more

     or be lost and never seen


writing poems on Friday morn

     wondering what I may be

known of none or maybe more

     lost through all eternity




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