Spring has sprung
Weeping cherry blossoms
Waiting to scatter
Like memory fragments
Upon the ground

Sad wistful blooms bleeding life
Beautiful mortality
Accepting of its volatility
Bursting into being
Destined to scatter

Blooming en masse like clouds
Accepting of karma
Accepting of blooming
Blooming as flowers of death
Exultant in scattering a beautiful death.

On a cold night look up at the street lights
Its reassuring glow dancing off the snow
Look at how the light so bright delights
The watchers down below.

But can you see the light as it shivers?
The light dancing in the winter cold
Crystal shards of ice, blue and white
Dance like whiskers round the light.

The ink on my nib has run dry.
The cursor is flashing, giving me the evil eye.
Shakespeare, Longfellow and even Poe; know.
Know the loneliness of a dry pen.
At least they were spared the "tic,tic,tic" of the accursed cursor.
Mockingly it baits my thinking, sending me round the bend.
Poe had a Raven send him mad, I've got a cursor.

(In computer user interfaces, a cursor is an indicator used to show the current position for user interaction on a computer monitor or other display device that will respond to input from a text input or pointing device. The mouse cursor is also called a pointer, owing to its resemblance in usage to a pointing stick.)

The curse of the cursor.
That's what I have, not a dry pen, but an impatient line blinking.
Always blinking. Does it go to sleep?
It's the refrigerator light of doom, you try to catch it unawares;
but NO.
It still blinks.