Habits

Fingers mould to pens, hammers, weights and tools.

Voice adjusts volume for enemies, teachers, friends and fools.

Eyes well-up when a beloved character dies.

Mouth purses on sight of food I never liked.

Muscles tone with every exercise, every action.

Motives and memories shape every reaction.

Yet, 

muscles melt away after a day's rest.

Mouth waters with a slight change in taste.

Vision and tone steady as relations alter,

Fingers grow flaccid as routines falter.

Those monkeys of distant past must have 

held on for dear life

if eons later my hand still reaches out

in the darkness of the night.

The above poem is for the NaPoWriMo2021.