Fingers

Mine, they've been cut.
I know They exist, for They feel.
And They type as I ask of Them.
And They run scales as I expect.
And They hold doors for strangers.
And pump gasoline into trucks.

My head, it is throbbing with
a pulse that beats softly with
each and every breath, and sharply
with each exertion as it ebbs
and my voice, it cannot sing.
Silenced.

Then two thousand found me interesting.
And hung on every festering wound
That could be published between clicks.
As dying and flowing as teenaged innocence
When Divorce hung softly from my tree,
waving a cheery 'ello' through green'd leaf.