Hands
(A response to four | 3)
My fingers
desperately
Searched for a home,
Craved for the warmth from
A fireplace to keep out them
Out of the cold.
A soft blanket,
To veil the shivering,
And entrust it to keep hold,
Hiding the past, the present wars,
They would show.
My fingers
Solemnly fought on their own
From their own selves
As they fell in utter confusion,
About their long lost haven,
And mourned,
Built a shrine out of the scars
And wounds and bruises.
My own self feared my own sorrow,
And my own fingers feared me,
Recoiled from the parts of the body,
And their desperation increased,
To detatch themselves completely.
My fingers
Asked themselves,
Through the solemn lines of poetry,
I'd write every once in a while.
They would be
Holding maps of places,
Question the people of places,
Willing to find the love.
Prayed as they would write
Each syllable of packed with doubt,
But they knew, they knew, they knew
Of the love that would be found.
My fingers
Intertwined,
Laced to form walls of protection,
Clutched to seek the warmth,
Fell for an asylum
They'd been seeking for.
An asylum from the war,
A band-aid to bruises,
A fireplace from the blizzards,
The cold, the storms.
A haven from hardships,
An ease through despairs of
The nights and days and in between,
Whatever they may succumb.
A million shards of glass,
Wilted petals of flowers,
Clouds from the night sky,
A dark night that sighs
The clouds of sorrow.
My fingers,
My hand,
Remains within the haven
of my love.
An asylum, a house, a home,
Everything.
Knowing they have been found.
YOU ARE READING
Handwritten | Poetry & Prose
PoetryH.R #3 IN TOLD | A collection of the told and untold, the hidden and revealed, but everything - all this and everything else - written down in solemn words, in phrases, compiled and collected as poetry and prose.
