My Hands

My hands are clenched into fists Knuckles white, bulging like boulders of rage They tremble with the weight of repressed fury Itching to lash out, to break something, anything, everything Each finger is ready to poke hard, judge and condem A violent storm of chaos and pain boiling beneath my skin My hands, once full of vibrant life Creative and healing Now they just rest here, useless Still, void of life like dead, wilted flowers Where vital energy once flowed through Now tired, worn, barbed wire around my bones Fingers that once held love, held hope very tight Have become gnarled and weak, Grasping only the black emptiness of sorrow