electric times

cords strangle and nourish
finding the right outlet
the exciting part

trees stand stoic
skin dries and flakes
inner sanctum remains
at wait

a moment's notice
from one mood to next
the text of life is often
in braille

fingers scream out
tap tap tap
on keyboard
her voice is loud and frail

each day is a practice
there is no final
there is no game

life is practice
for itself

forever
the plug