These shaky fingers I possess
Can paint a fantastic tree
They serve their purpose I guess
It's how things are meant to be.
It is with love in my heart
That I cling on to some hope.
Maybe one day my fingers will be still
Not only will I be able to cope
But I will have a stronger will.
But then the tree will be straight
and it wont look at all realistic
But then the tree awaits its fate
I will not be apologetic.
So it is a toss up, straight or still
I really dont care if my fingers shake
I love painting trees on a misty hill
or the reflections around a lake.
That is settled then, perfection.