Dreary servitude

A Poem by may

The sound of incessant,
touch of the keyboard,
akin to the sweet,
harmony of a
stream tumbling down,
became the lullaby
The bright orange flashing,
of the chatterbox gizmo,
made my dreams colorful
The manuscript filled with rows
and columns uploaded,
in the aperture morphs
itself into armament
of destruction,
the circadian pace
convention,adds
macabrish feature
to the nightmare,
jerking me awake
from it, only to realize
that i wasnt dreaming,
but living my life,
the life of an,
impassionate ITan