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
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