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
I used to write nice cursive, now its awful because keyboard so much, in the future they will just talk to text :S
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Thanks for your comment. Talking to text! The streets are full of it 🙂
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