Hand

So then I'd stand,
hand in hand,
hoping it goes as planned.

The hair strand,
falling inland,
my left-hand,
reaching for the inkstand.

Hand.

My fingertips are tipped with black,
I'm watching all the books stack,
before I take my life on the Amtrak,

I'm getting so much feedback,
brain is swelling and before I know it I hear it crack,
all the voices are getting cutback.

Hand.

If your really understood,
then why are your hands all wood,
they might as well be on fire, firewood.

Hand.