I wish your hands to be mine,
To do with as I please.
So many hands grown for my needs,
like kindling trees,
I collect them in the forest of my mind .
They wave back and forth.
Trailing vines Da Vinci devine.
Putting them to work, so B'jork.
Caressing my face, a sculptor.
Combing my hair, a mulcher,
On my chest my racing heart.
They scurry North,
Covering my mouth,
Nothing comes out,
No thing comes out.
The hands speak the rhythm of words.
First a bounce about.
Then bursting out.
Trickling, a broken spring,
Flowing, jumping, skipping, colouring.
They mean everything then nothing.
Mean words fading into thin, here?.
As I. .I....I slowly sigh they disappear.
And I cry. I cry.
But a hand wipes my eye.