He was under the influence of ink,
A story wrote upon a typewriter,
Was it life he bled upon the white,
Could he change a moment, or was
All but preordained,
Mind,
Thought,
Fingers
Ever tapping like in Morse code,
Echoing out to those who never knew
That their life was a moment in
Black & white.
He would venture away, but never to far,
For life was but a button press away.
He found feathers nestled upon finished
Ink, a *** holding these reminders of how
Old Ink was.
He had tried a quill, but to no oval,
The typewriter was
His speech,
His voice,
Their moments
Captured like a photo, stillness in its frame.
But his pictures where words,
He was a writer of life's outside his own,
Some place he was never meant to see,
But he was their in his place.
Another chapter written for those living his
Words, he knew what was, yet by them unlived,
He was a guy with a typewriter
Who thought their moments out, lived and yet to be *lived.