Wrong Form of Communication

It’s

repetition.

.

Some say that’s

the definition of insanity.

.

The people

whom I can’t see

but I know

are just within

my reach

are telling me

by mail delivered by horseman

that they can’t find

my messages.

.

My machine

is no small thing

it’s from the beginning

of the 19th century.

It has long arms,

and I am waving them

frantically.

.

My message

is the signal

we decided on.

I give it

again,

and again.

But whenever the mailmen,

who travel on horse,

pass by

they say that those

I name

have not received them.

.

~

.

The next horseman

who comes,

I ask,

as I always do,

if my message

was received

by those I name.

He says no.

.

I dig beneath my tower.

To hell with my fury.

I decide

to send a horseman

to my other telegraph operators,

how ironic.

.

~

.

Upon the written responses,

I find out the ugly truth.

.

As it turns out,

that those I needed

so badly to contact directly

were hundreds of miles away

using another form

of communication

entirely.

My arms were waving wildly

in vain.

.

Well at least

I’m not

mad.

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