Amputated

A finger cut loose
Separated from the Dominant hand
Leaving others broken and fractured,
A poorly sight of Deformed appendages left limp and tragic,
Is this fate?
Trying to manipulate my train of thinking
A threat carried out
To stop the written hand
Producing my verses of alternatives
Converting black into grey,
Am I Getting to close
To warrant a mystical warning,
A pointed finger cursing mine
Forcing me to throw down tools
Over The edge of damnation,
What next my eyes, My mind,
Should I stop banging my words
Into an order of verse
That wakes the sleeping baby of chaos.

No these thoughts exist Because we exist,
I will take my Sacrifice
And keep bringing forth
The fantasy of my world
Blending thinly into theirs,
By believing is creating,
Giving thoughts a substance
To make nightmares whole,
The warning I will heed
But it proves that I would bleed
To thrive in the unknown,
Unlock doors to interpretations
And bring some kind of order
To the underlying turmoil.

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