A sweaty palm
Four fingers
Then a thumb
Resting by
A spool of thread
The fingers slightly curled
The thumb rigidly straight
But left resting on
The white threads of fate
For life and death was in it's grasp
Said the thumb to the fingers curled
"Nasty things you have written,
Red ink poured on blank pages,
And for your sins you must be smitten
With a blow that can't be taken back."
The fingers one through three
Drooped and cried, their 'faces' fell
And they sank slowly to their 'knees'
But the fourth finger tried to run
Yet it was too close to escape the wrath of the thumb
And so the thread was knotted
And carefully wrapped around their 'necks'
Drawn tighter until they grew silent
And their pale 'faces' hit the decks
Leaving the thumb alone with it's thread
But the thumb could not stand
The lonely life that he brought upon him
So he undid the white nooses
Apologized for the rash actions taken on a whim
And watched the colour return to his friend's 'faces'
Never again did the thumb
Try to bring justice to his neighbors
Instead worked with them in their task
Their continual ink-filled labors
And never once complained of their ill manners
