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Inbox

INBOX

The inbox bothers me it's an appearance of what might be,
if seclusion or dependency were made my lifeís only destiny,
after rising from my dreams fitfully I staggered to the screen,
pressed the starting button, waited a bit, had patience to sit...

And electronic wizardry silently sequenced its internal tasks,
the computer responded that no new message existed at all,
would my life melt, would I vanish, shoved out in the hall...
Turn to burnt paraffin, an isolate at the height of the ball?

Loneliness, isolation, a gathering storm, confusion, demented,
grasping a chair, I'd fall to the ground, no one would notice,
no one would care, an invisible man, a cipher, a zilch, a boor,
the inbox is empty, my emails unanswered, contacts lost...

On stormy seas I'm lost, my wearied bones and flesh tossed,
suddenly might I fashion, that inboxes are not my boss,
the sun rises, the sea is becalmed a distant island is espied...
Iíll reach it somehow, disembark, there's an incoming tide!


19th April, 2006

Author: Roy Schoenberg - Bay Shore, New York.

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