These Hands

It is a slow and painful progression.

First comes the waking. Being torn from my bed where dreams have kept me cozy by the screeching of a digitized antique bell, only to be greeted by ice on my windows. No matter how much I sell my soul for, I can't justify burning black gold for the demons that haunt my hallways after sleep has claimed me.

From this point on, it is the hands that stalk me. Eyes forever searching, hope forever looming that somehow I might make them move faster. But they only do that if I don't want them to.

It is a sickness...an obsession. The ghostly tick, tick, ticking. 

It's what I ran from. What I had almost escaped.

But those hands lend a sense of purpose, no matter the lies you tell to convince yourself otherwise.

They trace our history. Map our destiny. Record our legacy.

They control our hearts and consume our minds. So strong, a death grip never to be unclenched.

Like the fists we beat against the walls when they get away from us,

Like the arms that flail helplessly against them when they get too close.

They are praise, they are love

They are dignity, they are shame.

They are limits, restrictions, 

They can never be cheated.

They are the only thing that can carry us home,

When the ticking finally ceases.

Natasha Head

2013