These 2 Hands

These 2 Hands

A Poem by Christopher Michael Smith

sitting here doused in sweat,
tasting the salt as my lips become wet,
amidst the heat waves in our winter skies,
confused beings unseasonably counting the flies.

hungry for a meaning,
thirsty for a greeting,
chaos in all we know,
up as well as below.

another drop drips from the flesh,
another lust filled tear shamefully undressed,
spirit empathy to a soulful depress,
these clock-less moments ticking to regret.

2 hands in a circle & around they go,
2 hands stuck in a repetitious flow.

following those hands we creatures do,
learning nothing from our days filled of untruth,
calorie fiends perched upon couches grazing upon TVs,
envious of a life being broadcast upon the illuminated screens,
taking the medication through the senses that take notice,
no silverware needed as it conquers through osmosis.
wavelengths, troughs and crests,
prime-time violence with nudity and breasts.
taint decor proudly hung up for display,
honoring corporation with the purchase of each holiday,
this for that and that for your soul,
here and there & imprisonment of all,

to nowhere,
to the absolute degree of zero,
while waiting for Jesus to come forth and be the hero.

2000 years and so many books they have charred,
2000 years and still we have not gotten very far,
astrological disciples totaling that of 12,
the Sun they worshiped had no flesh & there is no son to rediscover & no tomb of which to delve.

repetition around and around with a dozen numbers striking twice a day,
plagiarized wars with the same goals to gain,
choking the air from the emptiness we take in,
carbon filled lungs growing cancers by the power of 10.
technology religion fueled by electrons,
radiation reflections dividing atoms within bombs,
splitting them into two different parts,
unobvious it is in our dualistic frames of heart,
either ye or nay, there is no in-between,
either stay here or fade away in the midst of the fiends,
concentration in search of empty promises of dirt, 
lost yet found within the dreams that hurt,

so vague and dilute in the far corners of this,
so tame and insane in the trances of this fix,
knowledge allergen, afraid to read for thyself,
intelligence abortion, never had a chance in Hell.

2 hands circling that one point in the middle,
2 hands suffocating us with no remorse & no acquittal.

never changing & basically devolving,
some still hanging from nooses that are continuously revolving,
just one step outside of the circle to escape this world,
outstretched arms & legs reaching for the release of all that is soiled,
crying to the Universe to teach us the stories we were taught to forget,
craving to exist 
nestled in the warmth of eternal bliss, 
omnipresent vision severed in this man-made illusion producing this human attaint,
inviting its grips to infiltrate madness into these six billion parasites, praising their saints,

the end of ends coming to blow the lies to the shores,
the fire of fires burning to cleanse the land of its sores,
the odor of death waves its hellos and smiles with a grin,
knowing the rebirth is forthcoming to these sheepish sheep, the followers of man,
clocks still ticking to their agendas of world wide gains,
the new world order has even the atmosphere locked in hand-cuffs and chains,
cannot sustain in this setting of unnatural equalities neglected by those higher than any God,
killing with cancer as our species sews sour genes into the plants and into the sod.

bars of lock with no key,
mute lips & no one can flee,
no vocalization of personal opinions,
praising currencies born from their minions,

keep following the sheep as they march to their graves,
keep digging the trenches to conceal their mistakes,
lying to lie and no commune for truth's sake,
hating to hate and killing to take.

2 hands counting down to the hour of hours,
2 hands will deliver the most extreme power of powers.

a simple device created to continue to the end of ends,
measuring our moments with ticks in six sets of ten,
Mayan dilemma of a calendar that comes to finish to begin,
completion and deletion served upon the palms of Universe's hand,
no possessions to consume, no masters to answer to, why this or why that,
evolved cultures will be stitched with soulful instinct & it is the ultimate aftermath,
a new life that is not measured by corporate credit scores,
new feelings that will hunger nor thirst for material any more.

it will all be for the taking
the Universe and eye
it will all be for the saving
these 2 hands in a clock-less time....

© 2010 Christopher Michael Smith


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Added on May 31, 2010
Last Updated on May 31, 2010

Author

Christopher Michael Smith
Christopher Michael Smith

Clinton, NC



About
Ego sum qui sum - 'I am what I am' Poetry is my creative expression here upon this floating ball of dust called Earth. Nothing feels as appeasing as watching a pen glide across a virgin page, watc.. more..

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