Critique-Trade

Dots. Marks. Stains on paper. Ink dries in the heavy air. Squares. Pixels. Zeros and ones. Surfing on a digital ocean. A dead man’s hand writes in a dead language, Rising from the grave only to collapse. His legacy lost to tradition, But enduring in digital immortality. Romance is dead, Stabbed by the mightier cursor. No matter what has been said, The pen is empty.