they are blank
stippled with electric impulses
that shoot through our fingertips
transposing time’s tale
across the backs of our retina
by tickling the delicate stems
of our ancestral brains.
(The title of this poem is taken from a Guardian article I've just read, called Roadmap 2050, that can be found here http://tinyurl.com/2fpx2lf. I'm not sure if this poem needs some work. It probably does. Let me know what you think!)