A needle, pen or life itself have points
To sew, to write, to beautify or haunt.
Our hands and minds, creative in intent
Give our lives their point, their way. their bent.
The long hands of the clock to numbers guide
The fingers on the the gun can life deride.
The hand of fate without our will can point
The demons in the dream will rudely taunt.
Our lips may tighten when we are enraged
When others in our lives direct our page
Our words are stuck, we cannot let them out
So we never learn the truth ” about”
Fingers pull the trigger on the gun
Who will say enough as spiders spin?
How my heart sings 