I would write a poem about rust
and decline
and abandoned homes
and cars too old to repair
trips not made,
clothes too old to make an impression,
music nobody listens to anymore
but I have no time
because I'm so busy
working myself into
an unavoidable state of redundancy
doing nothing that will ever be remembered
in the digital afterlife
a runaway pixel
lost in
no
i won't say
cyberspace
Comments
I worry about this too and yet there's something and I can't really say what, that I find comforting about the Internet community of bloggers.