While scrolling through
feed after feed,
I wonder if these lines—
tapped out at midnight,
lit by screens and caffeine—
will endure.
Will they outlast
Keats’s nightingale,
Burns’s red, red rose?
Or drift away
like leaves in autumn wind,
unnoticed, unclaimed?
I wonder if poems
typed in silence
can hold.
The rake is a keyboard now—
plastic teeth
scraping thought
into lines.
Keats had a nightingale.
I have a username,
a thread that scrolls
without end.
Burns sang of roses.
I write in pixels,
red with longing,
aching for reply.
Frost went “Out, Out—”
over a chainsaw,
not a saw.
The tool changed.
The cut stayed clean.
Yet here I am,
posting still,
hoping for a flicker,
a kindred spark
to find me
in the static.
The world shifts—
tools, styles,
the shape of our voices—
but words remain,
binding us
across the hush.
So here is my offering:
raw and honest lines,
a digital rake
clearing the leaves
of thought.
Nov 6, 2025
Nov 6, 2025 at 10:46 PM UTC
While scrolling through
feed after feed,
I wonder if these lines—
tapped out at midnight,
lit by screens and caffeine—
will endure.
Will they outlast
Keats’s nightingale,
Burns’s red, red rose?
Or drift away
like leaves in autumn wind,
unnoticed, unclaimed?
I wonder if poems
typed in silence
can hold.
The rake is a keyboard now—
plastic teeth
scraping thought
into lines.
Keats had a nightingale.
I have a username,
a thread that scrolls
without end.
Burns sang of roses.
I write in pixels,
red with longing,
aching for reply.
Frost went “Out, Out—”
over a chainsaw,
not a saw.
The tool changed.
The cut stayed clean.
Yet here I am,
posting still,
hoping for a flicker,
a kindred spark
to find me
in the static.
The world shifts—
tools, styles,
the shape of our voices—
but words remain,
binding us
across the hush.
So here is my offering:
raw and honest lines,
a digital rake
clearing the leaves
of thought.
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