Each hand has a story to tell
Every finger points out a fact
To the rough hands that went through hell
Or emotion coloured nails to distract
Every line that is sewn onto our palms
Be it vast as a canyon
Harsh nature with harmonic gentle creases
Working in synch our own companion
Scars that may cut deep
With stories that penetrate the marrow
Rising high like the beauty of the peak of a mountain
Or as small and gentle as a sparrow
Hands listen and they breathe
They uphold all your solemn deeds
Warmth of aristocratic sun
Blood underneath the barren land
Once lost it can't be undone
Within the horrific beauty of the hand
YOU ARE READING
Gold And Fire
PoetryAs gold needs fire to be purified, words need paper to be expressed... {Completed}
