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Margins

by George Hoerner

words spew fourth
not connected yet
just words springing
from some thought

an elusive idea
not yet formed
that floats in the mind
looking for a foothold

there is no mental image
for focus or reflection
no modern icons
upon which to lean

just years of waking
then stumbling from
sunup to dark unsure
of meaningful direction

wondering where
the gods and goddesses
of past ages have gone
and how after
six hundred years

the written word has
come to have
so little or much meaning
that one hundred and
forty characters
might ruin a life
or start a war

are we all fools playing
at life with key strokes
please see the margins
for intelligible details

08/16/2009

Author's Note: I'm not sure I'm finished with this.

Posted on 08/18/2009
Copyright © 2024 George Hoerner

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Laura Doom on 08/26/09 at 04:14 PM

Ah -- the context; the unacceptable typeface of electronic transmission; the prosaic key is in the padding. Sound articulation.

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