Cold Hands

A poem about writers

No matter the weather, Or if I’m cosy and warm. My hands will be freezing, Because I’m building a storm.

As a writer, my tools, Are pale limbs — all ten, Using nails, not screws, To bleed life through a pen.

Like weapons but softer, Wielding worlds in a word. Both brutality and kindness, And all things absurd.

Hands always moving. Magic wands on the go. Every letter a spell-book, Each scribble a show.

So maybe on the surface, They feel slightly cold. But inside they are burning, Fires of stories untold.