Something was off course a leak sprang,
as if the phone was off hook but still rang.
Then the point came that we're not flat tipped,
acting as if our ball points weren't stripped.
Pressing, typing inkless the words made,
needing power for them to be displayed.
Coming is the lost art of the written word,
digitized letters the inked writing obscured.
This had me buying note pads and coloured pens,
writing the words that will last past the cleanse,
of the pencils, pens, markers, and writing tools,
inking the written words to the alphabetic rules.
-
Author:
Maplespal (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: September 15th, 2025 13:39
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 13
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
Offline)
Comments1
So many times this has occurred to me that with the falling of sites, the possibility of an electronic crash all will be lost. I'm sure that anciently they thought the same when paper came about and they were chiseling stone with immortal words. A fun read that makes one think. A fave
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.