Hand
By poetjude
- 1737 reads
But water washes syrupy residue into a tasteless nothing, diluting vodka Irn-bru and sundown, merrydown. Hand grasps handle of beer jug and jerks. Alcohol addiction a mere muscle spasm in our limbs, a nervous twitch. Right hand used to write but now numb fingers grasp to feel . Hand is more me than head or heart, the instrument of creation, the soft stroke of daylight. I am afraid that I'm going to die, die by my own hand, and yes my hand is a murder weapon, a grip, a slice, the inevitibility of termination
If I am my bound to my hands , ( hand holding heart, heart in hearth in
home in the heat of hurricane sentiment storm of Hackney) bury them
palms upwards, resting on my suit. You embalmed one hand with hand
creme, annointed the dead. Sealed the fatalistic resignation to the
cold stillness of the tomb. For nothing can save me now, no thread of
compassion, no drugs to weave spells in my heart, wrap the tendrils of
chemical comfort and shadow-mask pain.
I am trying to say goodbye, having resigned myself to the dark thing, I
wish I could stay but Its all too deep, I let go all too soon.
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