Climb the highest mountain, punch the face of god

Faulty Fingers

My fingers are frozen.
Hands meant to hold
But fumble and
Lose lives.
They have no mind
Or memory.
Same mistakes.
A constant.
Branching out
And closing in.
Victims, not
Civilians, bitter rage
Turned suspect.
Turned black and hostile.
I hate these hands,
Demanding death and
Creating scars
Like an artist
Creating art.
No sense nonsense,
Stiff joints,
Dry skin.
Everything goes dark
At some point;
A curtain closing
The stage.
The inaudible,

March 5, 2009

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Faulty Fingers

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