it has been fortunate
to have travelled stories
with my hands

hands of my own
felt rise and fall,
heave and **,
and to and fro

the tincture of air
engulfs the absent trees:
***** trunks, grotesque and amiss,
inferior to my hands

a bashful melody
escapes my mouth.
sonically stimulating,
a tinge of an aurgasm

i mourn humbly
for ye who have not travelled far.
feel the hills,
your deep valley,
the gangling stems,
soft blades that shy beneath you.

i mourn for myself
a quiet tantrum whispering
for i have joy spilling
like a spring of life
just within my reach.

i will never know more
than the clockwork stories
my hands have told