Look What I found: The Poet In Me

A finger

It moves, it stays, it rests
It is the extension
Of your body
It diligently follows
The brain’s command.

It is active, it is tired
It goes in circle
And then comes to be
A limb with no energy.

It is vivid, bright and smooth
But it is attacked by
Awful monsters and condemned
To dry and get rotten.

You can save that limb
You can breathe on it
Love, affection and
Some strength.

That finger is waiting for you
It belongs just to you
And you can die without regrets
There won’t be any inscriptions
On your grave.

That finger wrote
The book of yours
With a permanent marker
And those letters
Sound like a heroic adventure
That will never die at all.

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