Our hands shaped like cages.
Cages shaped in the deformities of our hands.

Stoic fingers as rusty girdles,
Grainy textures as the bare calluses of our hands.

Trap.
Grasshoppers.
Trap.
The Sun.
Trap.
Our lovers hearts.
Within it’s moral confines.

Casually unlearn the truth that
confinement leaves it absent of light,
rid of it’s senescent glow,
dead to grow.

Our hands shaped like cages.
Cages shaped in the deformities of our hands.