The Art of Sign Language

Our hands are paint brushes
That extend into the bristles of our fingers.
Between voids that disconnect us -
The blank canvas
Of our own isolation -
We paint sweeping strokes
Of internal emotion,
Plucking words from our mouths
And leaving them on display
Like pieces of art in the air.
Together, we construct our universe
And converse within the walls
Of impermanent painted galaxies. 

Within fleeting milli-seconds,
An evanescent beauty
To those who watch in ignorance,
We compose a moving masterpiece
Of human understanding -
A mess of thoughts and feelings
That we’ve sculpted into meaning.