My fingers are cold and bony,
Pitiful creations that they are
Still they breed beauty
But still are they marred.
Tendons that pop up---and down
Ligaments that stretched too long---too far
Skin that is cracked---and dry
Hands that are caked and ugly and worn.
Yet still do they pitifully create
Skeletal digits that type real quick
Stubby ends dripping with reddened ink
Joints that creak like those twigs and leaves
Left dessicated and lying on the ground.
Hands that were once held with such passion,
Mains qu'etait les trucs des Dieux
(Hands that were once the things of the Gods)
Hands that will never be touched in such a fashion.
Hands I will look upon with such scorn,
Now all they that are, they should be torn.
Rend from the wrist
So that never will they be kissed
Never again with such passion of old.
Why was I born?