I Am My Hand

I am my hands that uplift
Their twenty fingers so hard and fast,
Those I am that function
Due to my wits,
Eyes have the region of doubt.

Then ear after ear hears the call
Of my human beings inside
One another,
These faults are never always present,
Yet those letters I wrote have them.

I am my hands of the relished sort,
Their boiling and melting
Accomplish a real religion,
So reformative that seals
Of the oblivion are concurrent.

Let those with fright be burden,
Be a burden to those in doubt,
Be then this burden that branches
Of faith connive,
Conspire in their hearts.

Friday, August 1, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: body
READ THIS POEM IN OTHER LANGUAGES
COMMENTS OF THE POEM