These Hands

Born empty-handed
The verve of life snatched from my bosom.
I die empty-handed.
Stolen from the cruelty of a society uninterested in my lack thereof.
I witness life at its fullest empty-handed.
These hands, filled with only lines and scars, stretch outward toward the sky and receive each drop of light as if it were the last.
These hands reach down into the Earth and are warmed by the life of the soil.
These hands beautifully craft masterpieces, made to be felt and not seen.
Seen, but not heard is the lattice-work created by these hands, large enough for those hands to lose themselves in.
These hands empty as the clear sky, with intentions just as high. These hands were made to fly.
And fly they will.
Across the pages of papers, essays, novels, poems, prose.
Across the lives of the young, old, wealthy and destitute.
Across the hearts of the good the bad and the ugly.
These hands were made to create.
Watch them work.