Withered, twisted, carpal tunneled appendages,
the ravages of time,
on foggy nights of quiet despair.
you are what I make of you.
You write my soul
open to the divine scrutiny,
applauding righteous acts of conscience,
touching the Blarney Stone before that kiss,
or Lincoln’s nose
monument to humility.
You hold that protest sign
strongest when beaten and cuffed.
Your fingers the work of a roaming mind
desiring to write
muscular extensions of words at play,
transcendent, looking heavenward.
My own two hands,
holding cosmic documents
no one has written yet,
my soul rising, rising.
-Copyright 2014 by Thomas Martin Sobottke (writing as Thomas Martin Saturday)
As are all poems and work on Struggles for Justice