hands

a poem

Everything is out of my hands,

yet I carry the weight of the world

as if it’s a jug of water.

My hands are cracked, weak,

chipped nail polish points to

the hope that has been lost.

Who designed life to be so bleak?

I dream, someday soon,

that I can set the baggage

down, intertwining my

newly free fingers with

a hand that understands

under the effervescent

glow of the moon.