How like life to twist the truth
into knots of little use
and glue and staple them in place
as an extra safety measure.
Come the fingers deft and sly
but up to now not yet tried
for years it takes to plot and plan
an attack on all the knots inside.
The fingers have been twiddling thumbs
in the safety of old comfort zones
and ‘tis the twiddle, twiddle, thumbs
that tire of such attention.
And so they leave the stretch and reach
of fingers lost in plot and plan
and stand apart entrenched within
the truth made known and visible.
Fingers, fingers, numbered eight
cut adrift from truth and light
stumble in the gap between
what is and what should be.
I feel for fingers numbered eight
lost so within the in-between
but they will mutate and grow
according to the place they’re at.
But who would grow in no-man’s land
that neither was and nor will be?
Helen / 19 December 2009