The Hand – Poetry

ImageThe Hand

By J. A. Weymouth

 

Faded/split into two.

Other side is conscious and knowing while one waits silently at the door.

 

Curious as ever,

Its eyes move rigid, pressed against untamed littlies.

Watchful, hateful, noiseless.

 

Finger tips encircle a crown as golden entrails seep outwards.

 

A word is rested,

sentimental even –

with festering purpose.

 

Circles ins and outs:

reflections of an ill-mannered past like pictures reminiscing velvet lies.

 

And I shudder.

 

Still shivering like a child who holds on.

Never alike to the become and the then before.

 

Always a child,

and never more.

4 thoughts on “The Hand – Poetry

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