With your callused hands
You moulded me.
With your cracked skin
You sculpted me like I was wet clay.
With your torn nail beds
You defined me.
With your clenched fists
You spun my soul together.
With your bleeding palms
You made me a statue.
With your pale talons
You made me colourless and brittle.
With your crimson knuckles
You made me a sculpture of cracking clay.
With arthritic fingers
You made me corrosive.
With your iron fist
You will shatter me.
With your dead mans hands
You will break the bones you created.
With your concrete wrists
You will crack my soul.
With your very last touch
I will be nothing but rubble.
- by holly boyd
YOU ARE READING
Words We Cannot Speak
PoetryPoems; Woe and hope, love and despair Poems mend us, they repair. Broken souls mixed with broken minds, Poems teach us what it is to be alive. They offer thoughts to inspire. They give us hope to aspire, They answer unanswerable questions They offer...
