Friday

Friday

End of the week, as if they're discrete.
Who authors my art, as if that were clear.
Days gone by, and weekend to come.
Who's eyes read my prose, none? Some?

Letters: technology with limits afar.
Friday's here: door now ajar.
Bend them and hammer them, on keyboards gone by.
Into the weekend, my train wreck will fly.

Train during the week, for fun after hours.
Technology created, and now man doth cower?
Red wine and cheese to lube up the night.
Electronic eyes and laser powered sight.

The winds now are measured to tenths of a bit.
And the weekend awaits to clear head of shit.
Storms they do say, will overpower all the people.
So Sunday's the day when you run for the steeple.

And the steeple and the chase, pushed faster by bytes.
Connected they say at the tight speed of light.
Friday night pictures, the lines now do blur.
Yet sharper then ever on the digital purr.

Like weekends and week days, society's more slurry.
Like pleasure and pain, power and worry.
Coupled and continuous, life discrete and acheived.
So jump out of the box with joie de vivre.

---
George Dyke