A hand that was ****** by the untouchedness of her life.
A hand that had just too many crevices,
Because she never opened them.
She was always seen with clenched palms in the streets.
She sat in the dimmest corner, every day joining the dark a little more.
Her hands were moist, tender and almost a liquid,
With the years of the sweat that had finally copulated with the blood, flesh and the phalanges in her palms.

She really,
Never opened them!

She was born with a fist.
She never did any work with her hands.
She choose to be one of the sisters of the fist.
Practised by the moonshine to
Spread a tad bit more pleasure.

Or despair.
Or pitch dark moans of the holy communions.

She walked with the drunken sweaty silhouettes of the watchmen at night.

They never knew her by body.
They knew her as the torching darkness that gorged the light on their paths
In  voluptuous silhouettes.

She curled next to them on their shabby beds through the night.
They never knew the stranger strangles of the nightmares they had …
Every night.

To them, dreams did not exist.

For all she did was to appear in them as a rage or vendetta,

Amidst a chore in the daylight.
They vent it all on the shiny awls to ******* the green meadows.
And then, go back to sleep,

To be in the shinier brace of an dismembering nightmare,
She copulated evermore.

They never knew they were pregnant with her potent ejaculations inside. Well, every man is if you ask me,
one of the ...
daughters of the Sisters of the Fist.

They never woke up to her.
They never found her on their bed.
Their streets.
Or on the *****-dried poles in their taverns.

But she always accompanied them.

Perhaps in the sudden whiff of a fragrant **** that lingered in their sweaty cribs in the morning.
Or in the whiff of the ***** from over their shoulders,
When they wrote a plagiarised letter to their new sweethearts.


No.


She appeared only when their nightmares resurfaced. In the broad daylight, between the walls, breathing through the claustrophobic walls that are one within her.

Whenever they shed the blood of another,
A burp of yesterday’s nightmare,
She appeared.

And faded.

But dissolved.

Sisters of the Fist are undying,
The daughters born to the dark,

Are the fists of the dark.
Since the beginning of mankind.

Till the end of another race.
To be the purpose.

To impregnate the bittersweet elixir of Evil,
To every living soul called a man.

If waking life is a death noose at the neck of a gurgling volcano,
then you might as well close your eyes and enjoy the evil delicacies that the sisters of the Fist will consume into you.
Yes, consume into you …

Till the day you die,

And become one among them.

On the day after your death.