Scribes spent lives,
Copying.
Etching.
Carving.
Starving.
Skin is parchment and parchment skin, to them
Words are veins in rictus pulse.

Right click Paste
the muttering glide of fingers tap-dancing eyes prancing about a keyboard crowd crowing
Crowing.

We're somewhere in the middle.
Hand can write, fingers smite but -
The eyes, dull from Windows glare
Flicker dim in shocked cradles.

So rocks Generation Y.
Scribbling with straw for Z.