Sometimes my hands grasp at more than I need.
Other times they let go of things I should never hold.
They swirl when I wash my hands as if a child’s curiosity
Had embraced of each and every part.
Other times, they comfort the smallest of blissful facsimiles.
Every now and then they shape the deepest depths
Of my riotous being into manageable
Diminutive expressions of limited passages,
Or flamboyant landscape monuments
To be seen and understood by the most sentient of beings.
They also however,
Push those that get near, come too closely
To those exposed impressions, away.
They grow with harmful disposition
And disobedient messages of loathing,
Instead of the calming love they exuded so many times before.
It is my fickle hands,
Wrapped around the hearts of men,
That has made both them and I so weary with life.
It is my strong hands, so placid and cold,
That remain hinged around this sluggish
Frozen remnant of a much; brighter,
Unknowing, warmly fluttering, heart.
It is my devilish hands,
With which I wish to part; not those who cared so deeply,
Those that could have warmed my amorous spirit.
Unfortunately, it is my hands left here to inhibit-
Everyone and everything,
To leave me here, not whole, but only a fragment
Of who I was at the start.
Lovely Heart on a String : PrepareforImpact
Accompaniment: Damien Jurado:With Lightning in Your Hands