When ones and zeroes
No longer add up
And the printing press
Runs out of flesh
And the headlines
Have nowhere to run
We’ll pick up the pieces
Build temples of song
Made of discarded words
Metal vowels and consonants
Foraged from fields
Like seed for migrating birds
And the truth that emerges
Will cut to the bone
Like mist
Like light
Like all that we are
And all that we’ve ever known
-Matt Beard