The Typewriter


Tired days,
A little hazy –
A blur of tedious work
A rush of vertigo in the fervor of
Completing my work.

Weary days,
All work and no play –
I feel dull,
And I feel angsty,
But I have no option.

Blurry days,
Beginning in monotony
And ending like that too.
But then –
A sort of magic takes over.

Magical nights,
My hands working;
Thoughts transforming –
Words flowing –

Rustic nights,
A sepia tone
Casting its charm
Over the sleeping and the awake –

Beautiful nights,
Nights like mine:
Eloquent and shining,
In sepia and in color, too –
Delicious delight.