Haiku: Bleary keystrokes

They call to me; early, impatient,–and creaking.

Looking down at the keys
and squinting through a cracked mirror of blur,
raising hands which are balloons of lead,
to push into life words that wait in the queue
of the addled Tilt-A-Whirl in my smeary mind.

I find that the “T” key and the Space Bar will have nothing of it.

They and their assembled brothers
sail through the kinescope of the darkroom I call home;
and are dispersed as the shells of an egg long gone rotten….

They lay in the corner,
like my emotions;
smelling of cheap scotch and
burnt out incense.

The words will have to wait.
They were dead already anyway.


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