Art Hearts. Gypsy Life. Pirate Style. Spirit Junkies.

Tuesday, December 20, 2016

POEM: Hands


He told me to always look at a man's hands,
   For they have to tell you so much more about him then
His eyes or abs ever could.
- Hands, aren't they a curious thing?
They are a book to our souls, if you know how to read the pages,
   Which bear a person's whole life within them, carefully hidden between the lines.
If you only dare to take a closer look,
  The tiny scratches on the back of one's hands will tell you of all the times they lost grip and fell
Down, crashing to the ground.
  - But don't shut your eyes just then,
For if you turn those hands to reveal their plams to you, a soft spot behind all the
   Roughness on the surface,
You'll discover fine lines of almost healed scars as well.
Raw marks on pink skin.
But of a different kind.
   Those are the cuts it took them each time to get back up again.
They are a secret street map, guiding you through all the places they've travelled across,
  Permitting you entry to the worlds left unknown, they are still longing to explore.
Following the winding track of river-flowing curves leading to the sweet whispered promise of the
Touch of your skin.
They will tell you, wether he's gentle by the mere way of how he holds his cup of coffee
  Or reaveal his strong and stubborn grip by pushing open a door for you
Even when the sign says 'Pull'.
There is no other part of the human body that can encase utter violence and graceful
  softness at the same time.
- Hands. How ordinary they've come to seem to us, while they are busy keeping our
Touch to the earth and everything around us intact. Acting as a silent messenger, bearing thoughts
And feelings and stories and lives along their touches of bare skin.
  You can even hear them whisper when our fingers intertwine.
They are capable of holding a whole life inside of them.
  A safe and sound nest between plams and an entwined fence of fingertips,
Trapping your secrets and longings, your fears and your joys and your hopes within.
- I look at your hands, gently folded across the table with your life shyly lurking at me
    From underneath, and hope someday
       They will close themselves around mine.

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