Hands Behold The Sky

There is something

Almost sculpted

In the arch of your hands

As they rest in your lap

Beholding the sky

 

I press cracked lips

To the tips

Of your waxen fingers

And try to catch

Your eye

 

But they too

Are tilted to the blue above.

 

Without looking down

You ask me

Why I cry.

 

And I answer,

Tears on my lips,

With a sigh.

 

 

I keep my head

And hands down

As I walk away.

I am not permitted

To see the heavens.

Reviews

[Beatrice Mars]

Again this is really I sad, I love the image of cracked lips and waxen fingers, along with the connoations of god and humans it provokes the idea that humanity is craking and that god is getting old and won't let us see heaven/the future/his plans..

Of course that might be a load of rubbish and nothing to do with what you were actually thinking... xx