Dirty Hands
Your dirty hands upon me.
I tremble at the thought.
Begging let my spirit free.
The mad militia I have fought.
Love still binds my heart to you,
despite the freely dripping blood.
Your presence on a raging coup,
leaching my shell changing blue.
Ripping the loaded gun so cold
from your hot and beating hand.
You tackle me to the floor I fold.
Tis a miracle I land.
I am one and one with God.
Through him the hand we have declawed.
Copyright © Wendy Stein | Year Posted 2024
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