Typewrite
Typewrite
Pacing back and forth these keys,
Like footfalls echoing on worn-out tracks—
The sights and landmarks in languid grey,
Burning with the sting of nostalgic pain,
Faces, voices, shadows etched in memory,
Untold stories thump against my brain
Like a retroactive typewriter,
Reminding me—
With every thud of the type slug,
Voices in these walls
Strike the ribbons of regret.
Scars printed in blue,
Hurts inked in red,
Fleeting across faces and lives,
The ribbons take the beat
Of my swag and gait—
That staccato rhythm
Of a past that won’t forget.
Thud tap, thud tap, ding!
And back again—
Like my aging heartbeat
On this old typewriter in motion,
The carriage bell,
Signaling the end of a line—
A moment of reckoning,
Yet back again: the carriage return,
Resetting for the next confession,
The next scar,
Thud, thud—
Like the drumming in my head,
Tom toms telling the wind:
My past always catches up.
But now— it’s time to abandon conformity,
Transformed by verity.
I should have a screen and keyboard,
Control-a, hit delete,
Roam the freedom of a white page
With a renewed mind.
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