Broken

Small hands
weave stories,
wispy waves, she
quiets shackles
under garment graves.
A slave to
selfish ambition no
premonition of
wrath seeds,
soiled path
thwarted by one
she needs. He
holds the shimmer
keys for this
slave girl amiss,
calms fears as
she feebly walks. Yet
keeps looking down,
phantoms nip at feet.
Frail wings
too week.
Rays of bright
light
still
bleak,
bittersweet.

Dirty Hands

He arrives at ten past the hour,
other good fellows bow heads and
sneak peaks at the man who's
streaked jeans emit a odor of offense.
Slice of meet and greet served, thick paws
stained and bruised handshakes.
Eyes squint smiles, lips mumble names.
Salutation games. Sit, listen, hope
to have the heart quicken.
Swift sermon, he missed the good
music. The band will drum up some
more for dad and clan to
worship the Maker with dirty hands.