mobworm

There was a time,
reading every dime,
in black and white,
and feel writer’s chime.
Decipher the thoughts
with families and friends,
cry or laugh it out then,
on  mindful of glorious words.

Now bookworm metamorphed,
mobworm as they are told,
they read silently,
they watch silently,
whether standing or seating,
working or cooking,
bathing or even sleeping.
Reading through their fingers,
twitching the eyes never,
a few mad smiles here and there,
keeping only to himself,whatsoever.

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