It may very well have loops,
Whirls and swirls,
Lines finessed in formal script,
Or might appear like it was made
By skaters first upon the virgin ice,
But always so unique to us,
It’s like a fingerprint or photograph
That’s always different for us all,
It links the hand, but only left or right,
To thoughts that come from deep within,
And may, at times, be utilized
To sets our mark upon an empty page,
A flowing mini work of art
That can look so elegant and rich,
Or sometimes just a simple fluid stroke
When scribbled fast upon an artist’s painted scene,
But it is always ours alone,
So automatic, unrehearsed,
It tells the world that we agree,
That we were here,
A tiny piece of us that’s left behind
When we leave this human place,
A key to who we were,
The perfect signature.
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