Spider Web Vortex : Death Poetry

Ode of the poets lair

Sitting in a machine, no cares

Writing their hearts out

Jamming their blood, guts,

Soul in a computer vortex woes

Each dreaming, beaming with hope

Working hard and dying broke

History made by the rich

Enticed by every get rich quick

Scheme, praying on their dreams

Their words recorded on a dark web

Machine of the beast

Some try to help others in need

Feeding the hungry, many dead

Screaming, whaling, crying, whining

Trying hard to send some rhyming

Some write of love and lovers woes

Others write of being old

Many trying to find love

On a machine filled with virus’s

Ode to the poets lair

Dreaming, hoping many stare

Don’t they know good poets, die

Many Job’s of tireless efforts

So, I sit upon a machine

Writing until I have no needs

Happy, content to be alive

Hoping my poems last when

I die, died and gone to heaven

Making jam and history

On a dead spider web

The

Computer vortex

the blue rose