His Hands Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

His hands

Guess we were in a well,
Its bottom dark and wet,
Mostly chose a leader…

"Is nothing to bother…
I am not like others…
I know the way better…
USA is the first…
I show my miracles…"
He spoke, promised...

"Follow me for relief,
Grab tight, don't release…"
He said and fists went high
With the hope to climb…

Talk was much, no motion
Time ran out by moments
And glued were people,
To floor in descent…

Increased mud, current
And with them the sickness
Fell and died some patients
One after another…

No one saw the watches
In the hell of darkness,
Guide repeated same fart.

As the number shrunk
One crawled toward guide
For the rope he reached out,
Nothing there, could not find.

Anxiously, the searcher
Went for hands of leader.

Surprised, he found them
Not on rope, but tapping
Own shoulders for lying…