A colored haze of verse
Blurs suddenly my vision
In consequence of storms
And tumult of my soul;
Will o’the Wisp entraps;
The words clash in collision;
The magic lantern’s light
Makes thought complete and whole;
The ringing rhymes enchant;
The metaphors are witches –
They break the humdrum life
And save me from distress;
Then the computer’s chips
Suck in my soul’s fine twitches
And digitize bold thoughts
And feelings’ mild caress;
The printer spits them out –
They lie devoid of passion;
I touch the even lines
With tremor of my arm;
I read; my voice is hushed;
Slow is the lines’ succession -
The sounds just amaze;
The thoughts give me alarm.