The Beauty of Knowing

He withered as he wrote
and tore each yellowed note
to a man he’d ne’er known
in his crumbling, dusty home.

The words were a ramble
and his endeavours a gamble
but the nib twitched as it spilt
ink without a glimmer of guilt.

He heeded a change
in his limited range
while scratching his head
follicles laying long dead.

“Be wise, be human,
do not play ‘nother role.
Sit on hands that twitch
with a satanic glitch.”

He sealed and he stamped,
with wax it was clamped,
and cast into machine
that glowed soft and then gleamed.

Then the note disappeared
and the man sighed and he sneered
to a wide empty scape
that was dust we will make.

In a breath he was gone
and for all he did wrong
a warning was cast
to what remained of the past.