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 Grandeur Of Melancholy      13734 Poems Read


Hands In Hell


Childhood has no hills.
I felt my hand and yours.
It was different then a mother's.
It was different then a lover's.
My wife's hand to my child.
Nor my husband's ring finger cupping my own.

Childhood has no secret meadow.
Nor a crow house to scare the sheep.
Yet when I'm holding your hand it's
like fear defeats the sadness
to reap. Holding the reaper's hand
was not like holding yours it was warm
and wholly without scars. Where the sun never met the
ground. And the sea was drowned. Wherever
on earth all the priests prayed a moment.
None was found hands held only felt distant.




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