These hands are mine
working overtime
stop and stare
the lines that were once not there
cross like broken canals
empty and dry
winter hands
cold carved ruts
and pale scars
greet one-another
and speak silently
of a known past
and an unknown future
these old hands
are the children
of still older ones
to come
dry bones of the eschaton
enfleshed and living now –
but cold.
very cold.
Harnessing Chaos 