You Could Understand

My right hand’s done work

From my cut up body

To the clerk

Notebooks full of life

With matching scars

To the blackest tar

No soul

To fully whole

Absolute absence

To a perfect presence

A beautiful talent

This right hand brings

The perfect harmonies

All making sense to me

As I create beauty

All in writing poetry

Carving the lines deep and rigid

Matching my thigh

As I cry a little

Satan at the fiddle

Catching the riddle

Like sticking a metal rod

In the middle of bike spokes

Dropping the rider to his face

Just another line misplaced



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