Hands

Hands that never learned to hold.

These hands were tainted in soft neglect.

Not the kind that leaves you starved and fighting for your life.

The kind that slowly sends poison through your eyes.

So soon their lids begin to droop, they drift.

Floating aimless through a void, an absence of a heart.

In the empty jar that could have been filled by love.

It grows dust bunnies, cobwebs and spiders soon find home.

In all that lives in this barren glass, they find a sense of growth.

A purpose in life they saw through a lens from inside the glass.

This little house they strolled into, made home from nothing.

This jar is still objectively empty, hands are still cold.

They are growing old and they are yet to know an embrace.

Unknowingly they wander through life, ignoring the pains of space.

Walking unaware of the rope that was tossed down in a rescue.

A hopeless attempt to give them something to hold on to.