My fingers are joined to the keyboard

My fingers are joined to the keyboard
As if like connections in a telephone exchange

I can’t tell if they are part plastic and metal
Or if the keyboard is made of flesh

The keyboard is a shackle for my hands
Or the stocks where the fools hands are clamped inside

They once I wrote with one hand on paper
It was a dancing hand like an Italian wind in a vineyard

I could make it fly like a bird searching for another hand to hold

But ahead of me the scrapyard robot grapples another human typewriter
Where modern writers are sent at the end of their usefulness

Published by blackbird212012

I wish to develop as an artist songwriter.

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