How my handwriting, is
not taking an angled-cross with the nib
As I wink my curious eyes
with the slanting shadow of my ink pen
Where are those papyrus pith
with a scrolling text
The rolling manuscript,
An angle of my written language
Where are those primitive men
Young and ripe
Where the text eluded their fingers
for stones and climbing trees
How my words are now dressed
by pressing fingers on the keyboard
As, I have lost the touch
for earthy and the real
No comments:
Post a Comment