He typed as if the world awaited rescue,
punching his small screen with feverish thumbs.
A flurry of emojis stumbled behind him,
a parade of half-formed thoughts and ellipses.
The coffee shop people whispered,
"He hasn't blinked in three days."
The barista swore she heard
his fingers crackle like dry leaves.
A sparrow crashed into the windowpane,
misled by the fluorescent ghosts of his screen.
Outside, clouds gathered, bored with his saga,
but inside, nothing could break his rhythm.
Even his shadow grew tired, lagging behind,
folding itself into the dark corners.
"LOL," he muttered, though no one had spoken.
His soul was slowly texted into oblivion,
character by character,
until Sir Text-a-Lot froze mid-scroll,
his shoulders hunched like wilting scaffolds.
A final ding echoed, fragile, orphaned.
Some say they see his thumbs at night,
ghostly, jittering in the fogged-up air,
still typing, still typing,
but with no message left to send.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: March 9th, 2026 11:58
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 11
Offline)
Comments3
A poem of exhaustion following tireless efforts. A wonderful write of frenzy meets burn out. Well done
Thanks Soren
You are most welcome
I wonder that young Soren upstairs hasn't introduced 'metaphor' into the proceedings, as I see this as symbolic for all the texts that float out there from all machines!
Reminds me of a denizen of a cafe I once frequented. Rich picture.
Thanks Dave
This reads like a modern fable—humor, horror, and loneliness all typed out in fevered rhythm.
You’ve captured the quiet terror of obsession with uncanny clarity.
Thank You brother
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