Writer’s Hands

The bird left behind a feather -

Black, grey, and white -

Lying right before me,

Marked with black ink-like blots.

Writer’s fingers: bony, cold, long, and fearless

In constant motion,

Seeking inspiration and guidance

To craft their work by hand.

No matter where they are -

Wandering outdoors or lying in bed -

They must follow the mind’s lead,

Thoughts flowing in an endless stream.

Books written on a phone, amidst the pages of other volumes,

Devoured in place of real food,

For only nourishment for the soul matters to them.

Those bony, cold, long, fearless fingers,

Suffering from the damp,

Rainy days without and within,

Showing no mercy to the unfortunate.

One day, they will earn their reward -

The finest corner of the world, without a doubt.

No one believes in them, so the writer must believe

With double the strength,

Standing alone amidst a crowd full of doubt,

A crowd that spews venom and breathes toxicity.

The writer never desired such a fate,

Yet the saving grace is that it rests with us -

Free choice, and nothing more.