Waiting for ever

The dust gathers and the disperses

in a fractal swirl upon the beaten wood floor.

The typewriter sits,

proud, erect and iron cold .

Waiting,

ready for those long callused fingers

with teeth torn nails

to tap upon its keys

bringing forth the cherished

pattern of consonants and vowels

that speaks of dreams and nightmares,

lives lived and lives lost.

The sun rises and night falls.

Day morph into years

and the machine grows old and tired

with rust and disuse.

But still it waits,

sure the hands of its author will return.

Unaware of those very hands,

two floors beneath it,

caressing the keys of a brand new Mac.

Reviews

[Violeta]

How very sad... I really loved your vocabulary as well as your depiction of the scene and the writer himself (or herself). Well done. :)

[I Confess, I Digress]

I love your diction: "fractal," "disperses," etc.

Sometimes nostalgia for old things is beneficial, sometimes it is unnecessary. But the images you create of this typewriter are compelling. Nicely written.