I move with no engine, yet I still can glide, Two hands are my heartbeat, they pull at my side. I whisper through waters where motors feel loud, I’m smallest in harbors, but free from the crowd. I travel in rhythm, not rush or in haste, Where effort and silence are part of the taste.

I pierce to heal, and I bite to bind, two different worlds of a similar kind. On a quiet desk, I keep chaos in place, in a room of red, I close up the space. Feed me metal teeth to finish the deed, secure a wound or a document in need.

I can read high and I can read low, Or I put your homeostasis on show.

What do you call a sad cup of coffee? A ...

It makes you stop when you want to go, it tells you when it is your turn, you know.