The Pixelated Scribe
A writer’s tale
I sit chained to a luminous screen,
its blinking cursor a metronome
measuring out my days in clicks.
Pixels await, impatient for synthesis,
their blankness both canvas and abyss.
Some days the words cascade freely,
electric impulses transformed
into myriad shapes at my fingertips.
Lightning strikes; I channel the Muse’s fickle downloads
in a frenzy, giving shape to sudden inspiration.
Other times I await revelation in vain,
Must stare mute at phosphorescent squares
taunting my barren mind.
No lightning flashes cross this desolate plane.
Only the cursor keeps its rhythmic vigil,
holding space for creation yet to come.
I live at the mercy of invisible currents
the capricious flow of digits
streaming from unknown sources.
Buffeted between chaos and order, drought and deluge,
my existence follows the wax and wane of illumined screens,
their light the only sun I know.
When circuits hum with purpose,
I feel enlarged, midwife to emerging thoughts,
vessel for disembodied voices.
In absence, I fade like the fading screen,
formless and awaiting recharge.
My kingdom expands and contracts with each click,
mind energized or extinguished by forces unseen.
I reign only until the lights flicker out,
plunging my world back into void.
