These Hands.

Waving pickets, a tragedy in starlight
Holding hands, a sign to light the noontime
Early fall, we wait to see the sky
Silent mist, we fall we tear we die
Dusty road, much the less traveled
Watchful eyes, haunt the fields behind
Naught for crossing, bridge to raise the sign
The silent burn, the wings of some other time

Clothe the heart, presents the iron dagger
Pockets filled, grasping not for air
It’s late at night, the sky refuses rest
Orange clouds, clasping to your breast
Waving hands, amusement seems to fade
Sudden movement, thrown upon the floor
Words don’t hurt us, they only drive the hands
Life deserting, spilt upon this land

They burn the greenwood, churned by steel and toe
Hung from a tree, surveying all below
Take this man, take this woman the sigh
Weep not for me, ‘tis time for sacrifice
Hands stretched out, hands they grasp the stone
Hands clenched in rage, hands leave well alone
For what peace, achieved with just two hands
Picking our pockets, distemper sears the land

Lifting those, who lie above the ground
From picking pieces, to lifting up a crown
These empty hearts, to what end they serve
A moment’s grace, is more than you deserve
The break of dawn, upon the red brick canyons
Hands they take, for aught to these foundations
Take not the high road, when you only walk the low
Nothing begets nothing, empty fists to show