HANDS IN CRISISA Poem by SHEEMA HUQPOEMReluctantly delving in to her dinner plate, her dry, unkempt, hands were squat, muscular, quaint, divulging her troubled, emotional state, moving conductively in small figures of eight, pressing against
her stomach, inwardly irate, each
time
she flinched to stop to think, her fingernails were half an inch, the
size of a medium pinch, a pinch
so fierce, the skin would pierce, proportioned evenly, decorated meagrely, she felt they lacked maybe, aesthetic dignity, when shoddy, they were given adequate attention, cleaned and buffed, without looking rough, ready to undertake any task, though weeks had passed, a closer inspection showed her skin was chapped gaunt, broken, indicating a lack of fluids, nutrition, circulation,
accentuating
her dense wrinkles, the bony points of her
pale knuckles, had she reached her crisis pinnacle? She envied almond shaped nails, with tips that could boast ample growth, she missed socialising with folk, her ability to joke, to laugh, to strum guitar, when suddenly tense, her hands clenched,
fingers coiling and writhing,
with a morosley, peculiar, turbulence, like beleagured, agitated, serpents... © 2013 SHEEMA HUQAuthor's Note
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Added on April 10, 2013Last Updated on April 19, 2013 AuthorSHEEMA HUQLONDON , ENGLAND, United KingdomAboutI am SHEEMA A LONDON BASED POET THANKS FOR READING! more.. |

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