Pretty Much The Best Poem Ever:

"tracing lines with my little finger,

over skin painted with unwashable ink

caressing every rivulet, and raised peak

no flaw or facet left untouched,

unnoticed, as we fight to keep

hold of some tender nature, our parents passed to we

scolded or emoboldend by every bloodied knee

slowly passing weeks, suddenly half-centuries in naught but a blink

some have wept and lept, and left us with their carelessness

how mighty can we be, with the groping darkness pressing at our backs

pushing us in need, swinging with such fury

at enemies we cannot see, laughing at our mortality

for some gentle relief, recalling the warm black bliss

before our eyes could see, enveloped in that warm trust

we spend our whole life seeking to repeat...."