Words don’t die

by Deborah Moffatt

Integrity vanishes in the icy vapidity 
of the wide white screen,  
a compelling void,

a skitter of fingers, a scatter of words 
shifting, splitting, spreading,
unrestrained,

intangible, but not inconsequential:
true or false, rumour or lie,
words don’t die.

Harder to hide behind the solidity
of a typewriter, the cold metal,
the indelible ink,

the tuneless cacophony 
of clattering keys, the rhythm
of the bell marking time, line by line,

the sudden tangle of type bars, paper
crumpled and torn, lost words  
born and born again. 

You once wrote rigorous prose,
every sentence etched sharp
and fine in your mind.

Time: it took time, and strength,
the power of restraint,
the long wait,

time you no longer have, time
gone, words forgotten, lost
in the scrolling void.