Dead Hands

 

Dead Hands

by Erin L George

The devil's hands are idle

or, is it, idle hands are sad?

My fingers simply hang

adorned in promises -

sweet memory -

wrapped in ruby twang.

My wrists offer final bow

and I'm not sure

whether clap or cry?

Somewhere along the way

I've lost my voice

and don't know what to say.

Words tumble from stairs

so tall within my mind

and I can't reach high enough

(butterfly net grind).

Diamond, platnium, glitter

gold. Seashells painted plum,

strings of sleeping dreams

dancing on my thumb.

 

Wake up!

Wake up, sleepy head

it's time to celebrate!

The devil's hands are idle

someone wise once said.

I've got a scar

from a wart when I was ten.

and a brand new one from a match

polished in scarlett red.

But...

they won't wake up -

for anything -

my hands are simply dead.

 

Words are exiting

faster than I can chase

faster than I can make

dead hands, empty net 

(a writer's worst dread).

Author's Note

Just a draft. I'm struggling to find my writing mojo these days....

Reviews

[Danny Anthony Schromen]

I really like this and i can totaly relate to this. You have always dazzled me with your writings. Keep em coming, wait, dont i need to catch up with your writings... just playin