Emily Dickinson.
Not trapped,
But a secluded singing bird
Who sticks to the neighborhood.
Copies of copies travel the world.
Xeroxes roam the billion corners;
Taking their inspiration with them.
Copies had to start somewhere.
Their masters stay at home,
For the pot cannot simmer
Unless it’s left alone.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment