The times are changing for the good and for the bad,
I remember typing on an Olivetti typewriter, so rad.
Whiteout was used to erase a mistake,
We all felt that our words were so great and debonair.
On sheets of paper they lay in a stack,
Now in a closet way in the back.
Words written so long ago on faded paper,
A testimony to the writer in me, a mystery caper.
But it lays in a heap not published nor ever read,
A mystery written and now lays in a box encased like the living dead.
And the mind lacks the spark that created a masterpiece now long gone,
A possible masterpiece, a shame if you think about it, a long- lost yarn.
But as the tapestry unwoven the threads are bare and so worn,
A piece of me that lays in the box, unborn.