From the hands of greats,
Bukowski and Cummings
or perhaps the hands of amateurs,
tired souls left typing late
into the moonlight
as if the words spilling across their screens
could ever truly spill out their hearts
with any sincerity.
None the less, to save my sanity,
I save a poem.
A poem by any hand;
big or small or aged or new,
their hands hold me through
their creations, embracing me
and keeping me planted
firmly in this world.