The Where-run? Writer

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You’ll find me out in silence
Where dreams cannot deride us

Those seeming, scheming seams
Tying together tomorrow’s strings

The ole type writer is broken,
And so has she thus spoken

Archaic meaning addressed to bygone corpses
We’ve written too far along the page-spent horses

Galloped further than what could e’er be said
How hangrily our minds have taken of wine and bread

Vestibules of poets, past Homer’s crackling forge
Forgo it!

I address thee!
Friends, family, mayors and queens,
These ink-stains are
Where no tomorrow e’er sings

But only the bell,
Only it brings!
Paper and pen…
Dissolved, as ole William may tell,

They just sink