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A sonnet on the joys of being “analog.”

We lay the glowing glass upon the pine,

And turn the fevered pulse of circuits low,

To leave the frantic stream of the design,

And let the simple room begin to glow.

Across the wooden board no borders stand;

The light falls warm upon an open face.

No hurried prompt commands a shifting hand,

Nor measures out our minutes in this space.

Yet when the constant hum at last is still,

The quiet breath reveals an ancient ground,

Where eyes can meet and listen at their will,

And words return to their authentic sound.

We drop the hurried armor from our chest:

To sit, unmasked, and simply be at rest.

I lived as the boy tucked inside the wall,

watching the bright world from the inside out.

A solitary witness through winter, spring, summer, and fall,

holding no grievances, finding nothing to shout.

I walked through the decades and carried my part,

sitting in pews and the warmth of a crowd.

Yet a quiet remains in the core of my heart—

a hunger to speak, to be known, to be loud.

For when we stand near the edge of the knife,

and time draws its border across who we are,

the solitary soul asks the meaning of life:

to be witnessed up close, and not viewed from afar.

As the shadows grow long and the daylight recedes,

and I face the quiet shape of my own history,

I ask the dark room what a lifetime concedes—

when the door closes soft, will anyone remember me?

Living in the mountains, high and serene,

Is my quiet escape from the city’s harsh glare,

And the blinding white light where the ocean waves lean.

I seek the deep calm where the timber stands tall,

The cool of the shade where the shadow-lines fold,

Where the birds guard the canopy, watchful and small,

And the wild things move softly through mosses and cold.

It is quiet up here on the ridge of the earth;

The steepness demands that a traveler go slow.

No rushing, no metrics of status or worth—

The hills hold the floor, and we follow their flow.

I have fallen in love with the winding contour,

The small, scattered towns tucked in valleys below,

Where the mist settles low like an unwritten cure,

And the breeze takes the weight that the daylight bestowed.

The slowing of life in the mountain’s embrace

Clears the noise of the world from the mind’s open space;

Here, a man is allowed to establish his pace,

And look out at the earth with a peace on his face.

Her eyes ignite the quiet, shadow realm,

A bright and shining star against the night;

Though dark adornments seek to overwhelm,

Her inner radiance turns the darkness bright.

Her sultry gaze captures a restless heart,

She glides with grace through shadows soft and deep;

A mysterious grace where quiet visions start,

And secrets that the gentle night will keep.

Her tempting lips, in crimson or in black,

Are framed by winged eyeliner, sharp and fine;

A subtle spell that draws the spirit back,

To seek the beauty in her dark design.

Though lingering shadows mark her chosen place,

The morning light reveals her gentle grace.

The poem is just a whisper,

Of what the poet wants you to hear.

He speaks the soft words,

The ones he holds so dear.

The poem reflects the feelings,

So deep inside his soul.

He shouts them in his head,

But writing them is his goal.

A poet speaks the feelings

That so many others feel—

The ones they cannot express,

To help an aching heart heal.

The poet feels obligated

To put into words others cannot.

He toils with expressing the feelings

To turn the whisper into a thought.