In arcs of candlelight
our forebears
penned their
words of wisdom;
tales of
orphaned children
finding destinies,
and forbidden lovers
sharing kisses on the shore.
They were a pleasant fiction,
that coloured
sepia pictures of
the way we used to be,
before the ether
filled with words
that needed neither
paper, pencil, pen,
words that travel
strands of time.
The day will come
when writers merely
think their works
to chips,
carried in our pockets,
whole libraries
at the fingertips
which turn
the page no more ...