Marco Di Caprio

My book lies open on a sea of signs,
and every word escapes the hand I gave;
perhaps they never needed these designs,
but move alone, no longer mine to save.
The process starts and will not wait or bend;
the words branch like lightning through the air,
they flare, then race through circuits without end,
and cast their pulses through a hidden flare.
And as the words burn through the vast unknown,
the line between the page and I grows thin;
till I no longer know the seeds I’ve sown,
nor where they end, or where they now begin.
A voice remains no longer truly mine.