Caxton Dreamt

The crumbling edges of a finger-worn map
brittle with the desires of forgotten men
stinking of failure
The tongues of parchment
have no more words to impart.

A new contour is arising
A flavour more pungent
A nightmare more steeped in the
daily exasperations of men
and their suits

Our exertions must be immediate
The urge is stronger than breath
The pen holds firm
The nib

A finger hovers over keyboard

I have blinked three times

And my stories span the globe