Finished

If right hand is unfit for the mouse
it can be the left.
The mouse is made ready for this adjustment.

Both right and left fingers play well
on the keyboard
and the mind over the screen.

Thoughts can still be converted into words
and words into a poem.
A plastered hand is no constrain.

But the real problem is somewhere else
and my poem is not finished.

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It’s Finished

Its Finished prose poem

The burial ground should not be a place of buried treasures The bodies of the deceased are all that should be found there We brought nothing into this world, and nothing should go out Blessed are we who die in

Finished

Finished short poem

Get out, Outrageous fiend! Forget everything that was once there Understand it is nothing to wear Constants now becoming variables Killing like animals; everyone inside. You shalt not see my face no more originally, I thought you a bore Understand,