Enfolded into a strange
Passion, the taste of graphite on
Your fingertips, ink on wood pulp.
We are now part of an arcane society.
We feverishly scribble runes on any surface,
Before the pitched voices in our hearts
Silence and we lose the message.
The line stretches back as far
As etchings on ancient cave walls.
And we each, in turn, attempt to ensnare
The unsuspecting with our labors.
Implant ideas, experiences directly
Into the synapses, attract followers,
Or rather, subscribers, fans, idolaters.
The line is thin and shifting.
Or maybe you just want to pull
What torments you out from
Your chest and split its belly,
Watch the entrails spread across the table
And thereby divine some meaning.
In any case, it's just glossolalia.
Let it go, child, let it go.
3 comments:
+ for the penultimate stanza and the word glossolalia. not sure about the beginning though
Yeah, I think you're right. Thank you, and I think I'll alter it to start at the 4th stanza instead.
Hah! When I looked in my book to go change it, I saw that I had already done so some time long ago, probably when you first commented. Heh.
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