Hands

Hands

     

This poem is about our hands

The most constructive

And distructive parts of

The human body

Mankind  will (if he is lucky)

Inherit the universe

And his hands will play a major

Part in this exploration

But they will also destroy him

As sure as night follows day

Unless he learns to live

In harmony with his fellow man.

Look my hands

So clean, so bright

Not a scar or stain in sight

Hands so young

No work you've done

But wait my fingers

Your days will come

See them soon

When you start to work

Pulling handles

In a factories dirt

Or manual work

On a building site

Splitting your hands

Till blood red bright

Hands so cold

Chapped and sore

Heaving coal

For a fire-side roar

For in the "Pits"

You might be

Working deep in misery

Pick and shovel

On your back

Hands and body

Midnight black

Two strong hands

Might kill and plunder

If your country calls

For military thunder

Gun in hand

You pull the trigger

To kill and maim

A human figure

See them later

In years to come

Puffed up veins

Through all the strain

Blackend nails, full of grit

Hands and fingers

Bruised and split

But see them now

Your work days done

Twisted joints

Wrinkled skin

Sinues withered

Bent with age

Now you've reached

Your "twilight-stage"

Served me well

My hands once strong

Earn't my living

In work days long

But look my hands

At what you've done

Through out the life span

Of us human one

You built this World

For some it's heaven

Then you press a button

For Armageddon

This world you made

Will blow to bits

You see, some hands

Do EVIL tricks

 Peter "Handy" Wicks 1998