i,m surrounded by a horde of mechanical sounds
a melody of gears, click and clack
a flurry of selfies then start to go round
no pause to think, no slack.
maybe they came prepared for their task
maybe they,re the wondering type
they adjust now the ribbon, replace the mask
they start to put paper to hype.
no place for an amateur poet it seems
no home for the loneliest word
a place wrought from cursive and technicolour dreams
so loud to the eyes, yet unheard
perhaps i,ll leave with an epiphany here
perhaps i,ll leave here with naught
but knowing youve entered despite your fears
more wealth than money has bought
someday we,ll visit, nigh unplanned
we,ll bring back a forgotten day
we,ll type out a letter in alternate hand
and we,ll step out and be on our way.