This week I made a tongue out of digital ink
Fibrillating muscle crafted by equally twitchy fingertips
Fingertips that played staccato scales on non-musical keyboards
Fingertips that scratched the skin off inedible apples
Scoured juvenile journals made of trees and mystical code
To make an abode out of ethereal brain pickings.
This week the hand that held this tongue
Refreshed the pages of instant gratification
Hovered over that which is secular
And that which is sacred
Tongue asked the Hand: Where is the line and who made it?
Only time will tell if this tongue will become a tome
A north star towards home
Or perhaps just a throne made of experimental fictions
In want of a place of their own.