Friday Morning

I sit and think of programs that assign values to words that are wrote love and hate and in envy are words that of passion may be but value nothing to the values of the machine angles slopes and rectangles roaring sounds growing louder winds that blow and clothes that flutter things of value they may see flowing curves of tender flesh rising above clean white lines bright blue eyes sparkling bright flesh being speared by burning light hearts that beat with beating flutter longing felt some how deep inside burning passion consuming flesh of these computers feel nothing as I sit the words I write on screen of black and white speaking words into a mic parchment not nor quill pen oceans roar on screen back waves crash upon the rocks clouds above of reds and grays lit dimly by setting sun no man-made things of lines and squares shining chrome painted black backwards turning of the wheels and guitar not played arrows fletched in ribbons long words in blood wrote upon shot into the shining sun traveling through the coming time writing words for computers to read caring not what people may see dreams soar not upon the lines no passions burned with the thoughts what to write and what to be what is the purpose that I see will my words count for ever more or be lost and never seen writing poems on Friday morn wondering what I may be known of none or maybe more lost through all eternity