Stained Hands

I can not touch a poem

And not have it smeared on my heart

Like a leaky pen stains the hands

 embracing its power

And like the poor one, thin and

yearning for a cure to all he craves--

in the dark alleys, his ways lost,

paying each price

a temporary relief would cost.

relief from the cracks
 that left his life broken

and not just his back

This

 if nothing else

perhaps not a permanent cure

but a little glimmer of an

unknown distant star to lure…

night away from darkness.

There’s just something about

How it all comes together

That makes me hope

All lives would do the same

Replacing cocooned curses

With butterflied verses

Making sense to my senses

And lifting me alive

How a heart and a little ink

Can make a soul thrive

and become

 infinitely free

I can not touch a poem

Without it touching me.

~Trish