Cinnabar
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This poem is a metaphor - in the end about reaching out
I know that The Lemonade Stand is a Forum for fun and inspiration. My following poem meant to be inspirational may at first seem rather intense (but there's light at the end of the tunnel!) It's, ultimately, about the importance of coupling hands, which we do here so well. If it brings you down at any point, please move onto the next post.
by Cinnabar
HANDS
Hands are holy children
Christened by the salty sacredness of our tears
They've been bathed
By the wet breath of our sighing tears
Cast down, it seems
For a century
They are a tired couple
Clasping each other in bitter familiarity
Naked and chapped in a wintry marriage
Burned by the sun of days unseen
They are a gloved audience
Covered and pristine
Resting properly, patiently on a lap
Long waiting to leave
Life's pale performance
Beggars, they are,
Reaching out for the small change
They know as love.
Letting it slip through their fingers
Like shiney ellusive coins.
Our hands are a prayer.
Pressed together, pointing upwards
Wanting God to keep an eye on them
They are lovers
Exquisitely entwined
Slippery
Undoing the loneliness of the day
Hands are artists
Tracing every triumph and trouble
Of the day
Rendering a
Blue print, a
Thumb print life.
Our Hands.
They are a pair
We wear.
Wear out
Before their time
When they've never met
A couple of their kind.
Here, we've meet a couple of our kind :rose:
I know that The Lemonade Stand is a Forum for fun and inspiration. My following poem meant to be inspirational may at first seem rather intense (but there's light at the end of the tunnel!) It's, ultimately, about the importance of coupling hands, which we do here so well. If it brings you down at any point, please move onto the next post.
by Cinnabar
HANDS
Hands are holy children
Christened by the salty sacredness of our tears
They've been bathed
By the wet breath of our sighing tears
Cast down, it seems
For a century
They are a tired couple
Clasping each other in bitter familiarity
Naked and chapped in a wintry marriage
Burned by the sun of days unseen
They are a gloved audience
Covered and pristine
Resting properly, patiently on a lap
Long waiting to leave
Life's pale performance
Beggars, they are,
Reaching out for the small change
They know as love.
Letting it slip through their fingers
Like shiney ellusive coins.
Our hands are a prayer.
Pressed together, pointing upwards
Wanting God to keep an eye on them
They are lovers
Exquisitely entwined
Slippery
Undoing the loneliness of the day
Hands are artists
Tracing every triumph and trouble
Of the day
Rendering a
Blue print, a
Thumb print life.
Our Hands.
They are a pair
We wear.
Wear out
Before their time
When they've never met
A couple of their kind.
Here, we've meet a couple of our kind :rose:
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