Each letter punched
with purpose
straight onto paper,
by fingers that might
have been a pianistís
if not for the weight
of knowing
what should be done
and said,
of fixed expressions,
stamped upon
an all too often
first and final draft.

Itís no surprise
died a death.

Now the chitter-chatter
of plastic keys,
of sentences
that might
or might not be,
where algorithms
second guess,
and only now and then
do we send
to print on paper.

Tristan Moss

If you have any thoughts on this poem,  Tristan Moss  would be pleased to hear them.