My fingers used to know the gentle scrape

Against a brittle page of inky words.

The type of words that took a shape

And set my burning brain astir.

My skull would rattle as a turning reel

Projected moving pictures, sounds, and smells,

Congealing into something I could feel

Behind my ribs, a loud feeling that swells.

But now the words have lost their enticement;

They’re parched, all drained of their initial charm.

My fingers drift to smoother replacements

that kindle fires, never lose their charm.

I often think about the joy I’ve lost

And always wonder why this was the cost.