Hands outstretched…a little further, a little more,
My Touch means less and less,
As it’s unmet by more than air.
The speckled valley of age tarnishes perfection,
Dots my hands like brown islands
Each one an unspoken story;
Deep grooves mark my every laugh,
Fault lines of life’s quakes, sun peaks,
Winds of struggle,
If I hold very still, and want-
With all my might….want bad enough,
With every nerve ending and pore, neuron and muscle,
With the symmetry of the choirs last note,
Will you hear my truth?
Feel the wear on my jacket,
The shell, that is barely impervious to all elements?
The one that tells my every truth,
Even those my mouth keeps silent?
Why would I inject poison into me to fight truth?
To stop the truth, is to stop the wonder
At the heels of questions