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Click hereWild hands, dark, brown knuckled, not held
by the bars of the encasing cage; bound
by the conventional hands, placid
eyes, unyielding heart
of the man watching.
God's dark hands grip hips hard
as they buck back against his dark thighs,
pelvis rocking, no restraint, driving
your center into the grave molten center below.
God's dark hands cup the dark heart
of your grief in palms that will never be
ashes on the thumbs of priests and beat
life back into your four chambers of light.
God's dark hands lift up the diffusing veil of
your bride's eyes revealing heaven,
your beauty raging in the dark shining
core of his vision.
Those hands would be bloody
in the heart of those things
if only the man watching,
a prison of convention,
would draw one new breath.
This poem was selected from Lit's archive of over 40,000 poems for inclusion in today's Archival Review.<br>
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This reminds me peripherally of Rilke’s “Man Watching.” How much we long for, how little we can see, and how beautiful it all is, if we only draw “new breath” in every moment. This left a lump in my throat. Thank you.
is a different in this, however, I find it hard to wrap my mind around a God with hands dark or light...or hands at all...but, I guess a lot of folks still see an old man in the sea as well...you have a nice touch with the pen ...ty blue
Welcome to the world of Lit. poetry! It is good to see a new voice with a strong command of the language and an awareness of the benefit of judicious use of literary artifices such as assonance and alliteration.