Ode To Lines

I cling to the tangibility of paper its connection to earth, the feel of the grain on the skin. Words do not exist thanks to the mashing of keys and buttons, but by providence of the paper. The forgotten paper is still alive. Soft and crumpled yellowed with age. Though forgotten never erased. Never extinguished. I do not bleed red cells but globules of words, coagulated phrases and lines. The pen is a prosthesis, supplementing blood where soft flesh leaves prints- other swirled lines an whirls. The pencil whispers words, lightly brushes her lips against slate, ever the timid lover. Even when erased the word is forever imprinted, its curvatures embedded in the soft fiber of the page. The screen is an evil thing; coveting its symbols and codes. It hides away your words, entombs them behind an electric moon. When the screen dies so do your musings.