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Behind Fingers

When I write words
It’s not my hand
But the stroke of my heart.

When I draw
It’s not my hand
But the sketch of my imagination.

When I paint
It’s not my hand
But the brush of my soul.

When I take pictures
It’s not my hand
But the colors of my world.

And as I write this
It’s not my pen
But the mind,
Wanting to be taken, drawn and painted.

Now it’s speaking
Because you are reading
I wonder,
Is it my hand that does the talking?