Wretched Fingers

Venom, poison, toxins;
These are what I sow.
Paralysis and pestilence;
I reap them as I go.

These cold fingers, dark and wretched,
Keep destroying what they touch.
They reach out far to take new things,
And waste them in my clutch.

Those who choose to come to me
Are digging their own graves.
Those who stand beside me are
Like the former, but they wait.

Somewhere in this monster,
There’s a child crying out.
Though strangled in the blackness,
He leads the charge without a doubt.

See, if I could stand to say that I
Am nothing but a wretch,
It would be easier to simply be,
To go on and hold my breath.

But that is not the case.
I am two stark sides and torn.
My fingers, wretched as they are,
Need release from something warm.

And so they keep on reaching,
Leaving sorrow in their wake.
It can be hard for me to hate them
When I know whom they forsake.

They will take something beautiful
And smash it into pieces.
They will pick up the debris and then
Instead build something useless.

So if you like to be around me,
Well, I can change that so.
Though I hope you will not listen,
My advice is just to go.

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