In the Angst of the 'What Could Be'
a puzzle hooks my pupils,
a sudoku of words,
grammar of guile.
fingers frenzy
till fuzzy letters swarm a keyboard,
insubstantial
next to a Juliet or a Hamlet
but who isn't next to such skill
at showing how great and yet cruel
language can be?
click click click
go my fingernails
on the stupid little chits,
wasting countless
seconds on meaningless procreation.
what comes of it,
in the write way?
no one eulogizes
so many failures
to thrive.
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