Words reflected in chrome;
Elongated, distorted,
Twisted, conformist?
Smooth along the curves;
This ink is bleeding words.
The page won’t heed one’s nerves;
Defiantly absurd.
Square and flat,
Unfettered matte,
With keys to home, imperfect;
Yet calm upon its surface.
The chrome’s opaque
With stars inside,
One’s dreams did quake,
With cyanide.
Positive and negative,
Charged up and repetitive,
Like so many words before,
(“Quoth the writer, ‘Nevermore’”).
Can one be competitive?
A primitive executive?
Or left behind in lore,
A derivative expletive’s in store;
An alternative to soars
That weep,
Soars
That cry,
Soars may never question why,
Until the ego goes awry.
Will that happen?
Has that happened?
Happen upon the tap-tap-tapping.
Yet, those are the ways of old,
Modern times dawn high,
And when one dusts away the mold,
It’s darkness drawing nigh,
With nary a whisper or a sigh.
Take a step back and ponder,
Step back, don’t wonder why,
Polish the chrome until all is reflected,
Tell yourself the distortion’s a lie.

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