A Year of Poems – Day 274

A bookshelf is a line of pointers
A dynamic record of what I once knew
With variables pointing to the spot
Where all that knowledge sits
Uncorrupted, I hope, although I know
The electromagnetic pulse of time corrupts us all
The tape has degraded, rewound too often
Which is also why the books are there
To reread and refresh the old bits and bytes
With ink that cuts deep to the heart
Even when the hard drive fails.


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