I Write Bad Poetry
Her Hands
She looks down at her weary hands.
They ache from the toils of the day.
For every day they lovingly hold many lives,
Gladly being the hand of love,
The hand of kindness,
The hand of patience,
And the hand of sacrifice.
Grateful to to give their all,
To lavish love and care
Upon the ones she loves.
She slowly stretches her fingers
And wincing at the pain
Wills them to go just a little farther
No….much farther
For her hands may now indulge…
Indulge in the torture of weaving her future
In fact and in her own fashion
The wondrous treasures she creates
Matching the intricacies and beauty
Of her own precious soul.
In this, her hands work surely
Never a false choice
Expertly fashioning delicate dreams
Made incarnate by their skill.
But tomorrow, she will wake
And doubt the deftness
Of those same hands.
The value of their labor
Though they strive
To prove their worth.
For despite their constant struggle
Furiously juggling countless crisis,
Malicious pseudo friends
Carnivorous saints
They remain unsure of their way.
Rewarded not only with cold neglect,
But willful subjugation
And greedy consumption
They doubt, though they strive evermore.
Oh, there are glimpses
Brief reminders
Of the reason they and she,
Both drained, and aching struggle on…
But a taste of the promise,
A mere vision, a mirage
It leaves her soul craving
The aching more intense
For the brevity of the dream.
Sweet sister,
My beautiful Cinnimon girl
You are beautiful
Your sacrifice inspires me,
As does your patience and wisdom
Please know that your soul
And your spirit
Shine above all the rest!
You hold my heart in your hands
And it could not be safer!!
By:
lonesurvivor
Age:
51-55
,
Female
