When a Password is Unloved

Today I'm delighted to host this poem from Owen Townend.  

When a Password is Unloved

When a password is unloved
it becomes unfathomable.
A mist descends over its digits,
letters de-capitalise,
symbols shift,
losing all character(s).

A password feels unloved
when log-in is extended,
taken for granted,
security abandoned
in steady broadband.
Left for dead.

When a password is unloved,
its user must be reminded
to verify their care,/
protect the connection
and to never forget
the error of their ways.

For when a password feels loved
it's strength knows no limit.

Owen Townend is a writer of primarily short speculative fiction inspired by thought experiment and wordplay. He lives in Huddersfield, West Yorkshire, UK and is a member of the Huddersfield Authors’ Circle. Owen is currently working on a series of Western novella.

Website: https://huddersfieldauthorscircle.co.uk/portfolio/owen/

Twitter: @mrpondersome

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Visit my Blog

As readers of this blog will know, I like to host other people’s work alongside my own poetry, prose and news. I’ve decided it’s time to put out one of my periodic invitations for guest pieces.

If you would like to share a poem, a piece of flash fiction (up to 500 words) or an extract from a novel (again, up to 500 words) on this page, send me an e-mail to tim.e.taylor@talk21.com.

I prefer to avoid explicitly promotional posts, but of course you should also provide the readers with some information (preferably in the 3rd person) about yourself and your work, and let them know of any recent publications and/or forthcoming events (up to a further 200 words). Links to websites, bookshops and social media are also welcome. Finally, it would be good if you could provide a picture to accompany the piece – could be an image that illustrates it, a book cover, or a picture of you (or both).

I’m happy to host up two two guest pieces a month, alternating with my own. First come, first served. I look forward to hearing from you!

Golden Boy

Today I thought I’d share this little poem.

Golden Boy

He was the best of us, we thought:
there was a glint of magic in his eyes.
While we would hide our hopes
in veils of self-effacement
he was serene in certainty.
His words would glisten as he spoke them.
Upon the finely sculpted features of his face
there bloomed a sheen of destiny.

It was too much for him. When he was found
there was no lamentation, only disbelief.
His face, despite its stillness
wore that same gleam of promise even now.
How strange, unsettling to discover
he was a shell,
polished shiny by the sand
and sucked empty by the ebbing tide.