Hands laced in blue to power passion,
to search a face or spit out poison.
Hands composed of papery leather,
as transience's are all completed and dignity faded.
Jealously pinching at the cheeks of the young,
the shimmering silk of a mortal frame.
Hands cupping water on a mountain ledge,
or the blood of a wound near life's end.
Hands like the tools of the soul,
to throttle, embrace, love and hate.
To gain a reputation with.
I've used these hands to read and write,
and pick up the curved body of a hollow guitar,
to encompass this solitary life.
Plucking at the heartstrings of the inanimate,
with no response, other than the echoed melody repeated back.
My unmarred hands lie pale and soft,
waiting for the warmth of another empty heart.
I'll let these hands lie at their sides.
Out of view from their pitiful sight.
Until i come across a change,
to grab a rope as its thrown.
And squeeze it till my hands get tough,
and red and raw as the heart I now love.
An in this chance i will intertwine,
your hands soft life-lines with all of mine.