In the ages of old,
when stories were told,
rather than mold,
and neither quill nor ink were sold,
we knew of imagination,
whose masters could scold.
With a simple inflection,
their only direction,
spurred listeners’ affection,
while inside did correction,
of innermost damnation
became fluid insurrection.
Such is the abstract,
of the heart still intact,
when deep in contract,
with masters of contact,
and relentless dissension,
that readies to retract.
But today we have links,
verbal wars that leave kinks,
in bottomless sinks,
and unhealthy drinks,
from electric derision,
and arm-chair shrinks.
What happened to stories,
both bold and of glories,
where seldom did quarries,
disappear ‘long with lorries,
and hectic decision
or lone allegories?
When did the paper,
along with the caper,
turn from the shaper,
dissolve into vapor,
and delightful incisions,
became keys that did taper?
Whatever the answer,
I’m sure the pen-dancer,
has grown weary of cancer,
from the weakened freelancer,
whose electric visions,
thought himself an enhancer.
Wordsmith of Sol 