The pen scrawls, scratches the page,
Such sad thoughts, and molecules of human
Skin renewing as I write.  For my body
Is organic, self-repleting, yet the words
Tail-off as if they have no will to compete
With such efficiency.  The paper page
Translation of the lump in the throat is messy
And incomplete as swallowing.  And the ratio of sense 
To movement of the hand becomes ridiculous
For the page weighs more than me,
The writing more real.  Where is the relation
Of laser in the brain to quill?  Where does one meet
And equal the other?  How can vibrations of the heart
Be monitored by oscilloscopes of ink?
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