Incineration

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He burned all his discarded tales,

For fear that within each artificial World

There would be left alive some few people

Believing their existence on paper conferred

The status of Reality. And then he feared

That his own existence and world might well

Be a discarded tale from God's typewriter,

Awaiting Incineration

Typewriter

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He banged out a poem with great rapidity

In the hopes of receiving great recognition

Like so many before him had done on the

Picture instant share application on his

Phone, as though inspiration and beauty

Could be at one's beck and call the moment

One sits at a

Typewriter