Tonight I write of righting

Not the wisping grasp against the parchment That licking click of writer as he tpyes The cold inanimates touch of skin on screen Memories only shorter I eye aye the Scottish yes Scrapes and scrawls on cave dwelt walls Truncated truck trimmed in intricate trestles Who was the first message in a bottle for Bobbles of sheerest ink like Scottish lochs as.morning mists turn solid for a movement I enjoy being wrong Keeping pictures of the dead to the soon to be Words the unleashed an atom Words that end wars illlusions putting fuses to the con My muse has left So I better be …….gon