His hands are strong and still
full of lines and calluses,
Hands that have turned things over and over,
hands that have worked hard,
he smooths down the edges
till everything is in its proper place....
He is always still as thing rush by,
sometimes surrounded by chaos but content in his own serenity,
his secret place of peace.....

He plays with three pebbles white and smooth,
they glow in the midnight alabaster sky.
Calling out to the ancient moon, the rhythms and the tides.....
They possess soft curvy edges like velvety milk,
if he turns them long enough, maybe he will get the answers that he seeks.....
That glimpse into past, present, future,
all the the answers to behold
how he longs for that control......
His hands keep them moving as they tell of stories and adventures,
even some he's hidden well.....
He cannot help but cry-out as he pulls at his
own brittle tattled edges,
weaves those hands through the passing air......

It is his hands that are there to protect him
but it is his heart he races down to.....
But it is his heart,
             it is his heart that has fashioned this place made of tears.
In this heart is a garden,
             a garden so tranquil but fragile too,
                      full of rare beauties and wonders and great shards of pain,
                                  do dwell within this heart.......
But it is his hands that have crafted the longings of his heart.
Tender and gentle as they ripple with his centre, soul and emotions,
Alas he must always cover up the beauty that is him,
where he learnt this he cannot quite recall.....
The memories are too dim.....

So he takes his blessed hands and covers all,
his hands cover his eyes, the windows to his soul.....
"If I can't see, all will be OK!!!"
As he sits among the darkness never letting in,
the bad things out to get him,
the things he thinks might win......

It is a lonely place in that, in that pit of hell.
The hands that created so much beauty have somehow
worked to lock him in......
I want to reach down towards him to pull him out of this spell,
but it is his place,
             his sacred place not my space,
                           he will not let me in.......

But still I see his hands busy making magic motions.
Forms of protection around his battered heart and lonely tears,
never looking up incase someone gets in.....
And it is his hands......

By Bhodi Robinson @ 2009