The Internet
This is a dangerous place to be
Thoughts and ideas swirl, overwhelm.
Too much intellectual input without order
Raw emotion writes unfinished poetry
Hungry hearts beat out their lives in space
Entangled in the web of empty fulfillment
While the orb weaver sits gorged on lost souls
Hours devoured before the blue-green screen
Fingers stumble on the keys searching for connection
When all that is needed is the touch, the real touch
Of your hand warm against mine
And a soft kiss to brush my hair.
Early morning hours drive me
To the center of the web
by holly hall
your Angel in the dust
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