Open Are His Hands

-Open Are His Hands-
by Keaton Foster



There
Is a man
Open
Are his hands
Upon
Each palm
Are words
Written
In blood
Etched
Into his skin
Oh the pain
He must feel
But
He is silent
His lips
Stitched shut
His eyes
Sliced open
His skin
Ghastly white
His heart
Like a drum
Oh does it beat
From his chest
Laboring
Is each new breath
He struggles to live
As more of him
Embraces death
All alone
Are him and I
Here
In the deepest woods
As he approaches
Open
Are his hands
The words
Vacant english
Upon the surface
Little meaning
Can be had
Much sincerity
Indeed applied
As he stands
Before me
I read each one
Study the curves
And the methods
No doubt used
The man
Stoic and true
Speaks nothing
But spells out
Every dark truth
When I’m done
When all that was read
Soaks me to the bone
I place my own palms
Upward
Towards the sky
Those same words
Appear as scars
Healed wounds
Long since dealt
What was his
Becomes mine
He turns from me
Slipping back
Into the madness
Into a deeper sadness
Open
Are his hands
As he walks away
The words once his
Increasingly become
More familiar
Flooding my mind
Saturating my soul
Spreading into every idea
Yet to be exposed
Never again
Will I see his face
Never again
Will I face such fear
He disappears
And I am left here
Alone
Just as before
Just as forevermore
I take the weight gained
And I carry my load
Off into the world known
I show all who’ll see
I relay such words
To all who’ll believe
It will take much time
A damn near life’s worth
But just like him
I’ll continue on
His wounds
Have become mine
His injuries
Turned scars
Are now my injuries
Bleeding much truth
Spelling out
Many absolutes
Open
Are these hands…



Open Are His Hands
Written by Keaton Foster Copyright © 2015.