219. Life In Backspaces


Life, made from paper and pen
When nerves tingled, a century back
Before keyboards invented by men
Where thoughts ran as trains on track

A train missed, was a past so dead
In cheer, eyes took the next express
As a painter and his colors so wed
A tiny blot reared another, priceless

A character built in warm meaning
No backspace or delete to ever try
Of a perfect cut, else fresh beginning
Feet on ground, to reach that sky

My fingertips cry as chicken opine
To find their long lost grandmother
Haggard, rattling on the same line
Cutting pieces off a desired sculpture

As rats drooling for the cheese, same
We are lost souls in the same house
Little aware of playing the wrong game
The Sun on our backs that never arouse

So I wear life upon, as a paper, white
Chained by backspaces, words unsaid
Redoing the same, making letters right
In fears to use a new sheet instead

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5 Comments to “219. Life In Backspaces”

  1. So perfect

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