A Storm of Ones and Noughts

My ancient words are broken.
I can speak but the sounds.
Fall, scattered across dry ground. 
Spoken from sand dry lips 
to blow ragged and unheard 
on dusty pavements. 

I am as a mother with a suckling child 
my words comfort and chide 
but mean nothing beyond 
the truth that they are mine 
and I am me.

Wisdom comes now on singing wires 
and invisible threads. 
On silver rivers from silicon spirits 
in pockets of lesser gods 
who stride the new world 
Their power killing old wisdoms. 
We die, forgotten
before a blowing storm 
of ones and noughts.

© Dave Kavanagh @ daithiocaomanaigh.com

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