Tom Wood

My Hands

My hands have brought and done so many things

Remembrance of such foul acts do still

My heart, its beat doth flow and softly sings

Laments that my bare hands aim to fulfill

 

Soft muscles tense as pain breaks into bone

An ample, swift, and nimble ploy enhance

Your fear as I step in on you alone

The face of one who loves as I advance

 

Now I would dare to state the hubris claim

Of those who sought to steal my love again

My hands are poor, a sign for such acclaim!

A death, I caused, can only bring them pain!

 

My love was pure, and now my spirit free

My hands can’t hurt if the victim is me