a tale of an old phone

The old phone sits quietly, it’s life run course

A melancholic feeling of planned obsolescence

Not broken, yet I am sad for the phone

There is no conscience in this modern tool

Brains and veins replaced by circuitry

Not thinking, yet I am sad for it’s thoughts

When it is gone, will it feel sad?

A short life, to be used and tossed aside

Not breathing, yet I am sad to say goodbye

My new phone now sits within its box, waiting

It takes days for myself to finally be ready

Not alive, yet I am sad to make it wait

The old phone rests on the desk where I work

The melancholy returns when my gaze drifts by

A machine, yet I am sad all the same