Guilty Hands

Jagged enamels
Shrilling with the pounding
Of the weary heart, dithering
With the whittling of the eyes
Scraping the memories
And clinging on the bleeding
Of the benumbed scalp

Callused knuckles
Swelling with profound boils
From rubbing each other
To ignite warmth and scorch
With a burning pain
To reckon the life
In a tightrope dance
Between dispensing the light
Or melting with the dark.

Sweating palms
From the endless toil
Of vying for warmth
And from clasping tightly
In the gnarls of the time
At its gravid best
Slewing gracefully
Fluidly with the sweat.

Tremors of fingers
Daunted by the endeavor
Of grazing hearts
And handing another
To shutter and break
Swathed with hope and trust
To be entangled
Consistently, constantly
Forever.

Four deep crevasses
Between the looming fingers
Barren and disembogued
Yearning to be filled
Not by pity,
But with vestal strings
Coiling in the spaces
Feeling the frailty.

Hold me.

poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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