These are writers hands of mine
thinking in verse and prose
trying to convey my heart to my head
and make sense of it all
they feel the vibrations
of the surrounding
they move like the crow and swallow
rapid
always watching with wisps and twarts
dancing in the sunlight and rain alike
half and half they are
my duality
or practicality and lust
callused and worn
they have been and will be with time
as it whisks me away
age may creek into my bones
the creases may sink
and veins raise
but they will remain to move the same
they are my expression
for often my voice refuses to work
my writing words are able to stay between
while my heart may wander
and my head become frustrated and stuck
perhaps they will be my wisdom
perhaps they will become my eyes
to see every day anew
to smell the flowers
and ignore the hours as they will pass all the same