Broken hands

Obsessed with the hands which hold
So much, touched so little.
Seen but not felt, not held enough
To live in the comfort.
Outstretched across mountains
Towering over vague lives;
Intertwined twisted between
Last nights meal and tomorrow’s appetite.
Broken to pieces over selfish ambition,
Paid attention to only after they have passed into forever.
And when we meet tomorrow,
We’ll shake and depart as strangers
In the night with unfamiliar faces.
After all journeys are travelled
Return for a long embrace.
Only to be held in empty arms.

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