Friday, April 6, 2012

Death of the handwritten letter

Like blood trickling
From an open wound
The ink once determined
Its journey through the nib
Onto the paper.

Forming words.
Beautiful. Poignant.

Each curve; dot; dash
Every unnecessary linger
Of the pen on the paper
Betraying bits and pieces
Of the writer’s secrets...

It withers away now.
Those insinuations.

Near poetic allusions.
Loving salutations,
Made sweeter
With dabs of perfume
Kissed, with the hope

That the ink would magically
Invoke images…

Unthought-of for ages.
Almost pristine
Like life stealthily taken away
At its prime.

It’s over.

All that is left is a blinking cursor
A white screen
And an unfeeling keyboard.