These hands

These hands don't know no, body,
Hands that tremble without guidance,
transforms symphonies into clutter
into fingers that curve around unsteady bones
huddling in comfort against this foreign breath,
This body don't know no hands,
Body, an instrument carved from the splinters of tree tops,
these hands cut down the bark,
watch as its's heavy crowned pride
crumbles into leftover autumn,
these hands reach far,
stretch against the octave keys
try to make music out of the echoes of silence,
but these hands shake like winter's wind.
And even in the pulse of revolutions,
These hands crack like loose twigs
against
this hollow body.