I fear writers
may soon go the way
of lamplighters.
Illumination
surrendered
to automation.
Did lamplighters
speak as highly
of their craft?
“I conquer the dark,
warm homes and
reveal paths!”
Was it more than
the chore we’ve
made it out to be?
Was there a pleasure
in their labor that we
simply can’t conceive-
with our minds
clouded by progress
and lifeless LEDs?
And the children
of tomorrow,
will they know
the jaunty toil-
of forging sense
from mayhem,
from syllables
embroiled?
Or will they scant remember
any time before
writing was a burden,
a naive bore
of yore?
pm poetry 