At the height of his anger and desperation
he finds himself at his most creative;
Turning up the internal volume,
Blocking out the white noise,
distraction and despair.
The world becomes a thing of his making once more.
Making sense of the world through his fingertips;
Expelling into fiery mists of jet stream digits,
The furry of creation!
Clattering, like tap dancing fools!
The mute have no hands