- These Hands -
My hands are lucid at times,
I have been wrong,
lacking the softness, grace, and
My temperment could use mending,
Life boggled at me whilst it
"You have such a lovely voice,"
And I let myself be
I was a little late in joining the dance,
"Let time do the mending,"
soft and translucent,
permeable to the summer night air,
yet can violate earth and sky,
pluck the stars from their places
and rearrange the
constellations
in the shape of my dreams.
- This Voice -
finality of decision
I know exists within
this flicker of flame.
I know.
Yet in begging forgiveness from Life
for my misfortunes,
I came to understand
Life does not know sin.
Life does not know hell.
danced its merry jig.
And Life was happy I had come
to join in singing her song.
(Come sing with us, little sister!)
Life mused.
hunted,
wild,
brave, innocent,
fearless,
loud and silent,
strong and soft.
Yet lonely nevermore.
My temperment still needs mending,
I know.
Yet, I never did anything wrong.
Life does not understand wrongness,
Only weakness.
Life insisted.
"And time I have plenty.."
