A Hand

An ancillary hand was believing in me,
Hope turned to dust, I was crooked;
Yet while I played with danger, and
Danger played with my flame and fire,
The other hand beautifully wept
To see my days and nights as swollen with pride.
This dangling limb encapsulates my sin,
The very dashing object in front of me.
Forming from within, a body casts devils to
The ground where dusts are collected
And raised, unique to the touch, evermore.

poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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