The hands, a person's story.
Living in the flesh.
Its story, told
In every scar and crevice.
It can speak volumes
Of how they worked.
Lived out their days on earth
Was it hard physical labor?
Or a career, more soft?
Well if the eyes are
The windows to the soul.
The story of a person's hands
Are what makes the story whole.
It shows that soul,
That inner life.
Walked out among others
Through sweat, blood, and flesh.
I wonder what my hands say
What they might tell you.
Will it speak of all
The inner worries, anxieties
With nails all bit out
And do they speak of my early despair?
And that that same fear
Still follows me here.
Will my nails
Like a tree trunk
With its nutritious swirls
Speak of the fight
Not of my own making
But the one forced on me from birth.
The fight to constantly battle
And worry with fear and shame
About my looks and heavy weight
Never meant for my once
Pretty, athletic frame.
Your hands, they speak volumes
To me, who am patient to see,
I hear them whisper softly
Of loneliness, anger and rage.
But also there's a timid gentleness,
That softens amongst the lines
Scribed deep into your hardened hands
Hands rough on the surface
Stoic and proud of all their accomplishments
The hard days journey to night
Muscular but still agile.
Not too beefy,or ever losing sight
Of the purpose of the hands in life.
Which is to touch, affection shown
The physical inspiration
Of the spiritually felt love
Love seen through the
Eyes soulful window
And demonstrated in the here and natural.
With the tough of the hard
Some people say it all
Their hands pale, clammy, and cold.
Just like their stone cold hearts
Others...