Typewriter’s Last Words

Please don’t leave me now
that you’ve seen the future.

My ink is real and you can touch
my paper with your hand holding

words, the ones pressed by my metal.
Permanent black rune, my tattooed

sentences offer so much more than
the screen, where mistakes disappear.

Delete, delete, delete-so easy to
forget all the missteps and time taken

to roll sheet after sheet. But each
letter, each tap, was your imprinted

mind. Go to the computer, but this
crumpled beauty, you will never find.

Internet Will Save Us

It used to be just books,
parchment and a quill,
perhaps the trunk of an
old oak tree for support

during pauses to reflect
on words, cradling novel’s
spine. This was before the
nothing of everything, lurking

images, news, videos, email,
promising connection to a
world of always distraction,
attempts to evade our depth,

knowing that internet will save
us from ourselves, but the longer
we stare into that flat abyss,
the more we disappear.