The Weight Of Pointing Hands

The Weight Of Pointing Hands

The sky burns red with voices never spoken,

A quiet storm that gathers without sound,

They circle close, their fingers sharp and broken,

Each one a verdict falling all around.

She kneels where silence pools beneath her shadow,

Her breath a fragile thread she cannot keep,

The earth beneath her feels both hard and hollow,

As if it knows the promises we break and reap.

No name is called, no truth is ever offered,

Only the echo of a blame unclear,

A thousand eyes in every gesture fostered,

A thousand reasons born from doubt and fear.

She hides her face as if the dark can shield her,

As if the night could turn its gaze away,

Yet every hand extends as though to seal her,

Inside a role she never chose to play.

The wind stands still, it will not rise to meet her,

No voice steps in to question what is wrong,

And in that hush, the silence seems to greet her,

As if she has been here her whole life long.

Then somewhere deep, beneath the ache and trembling,

A quiet thought begins to take its place,

That all these hands, relentless and assembling,

Still cannot reach the truth within her face.

She lifts her head, though fear still lingers near her,

And though the weight has not yet slipped away,

There grows a strength that slowly starts to clear her,

A fragile light that dares itself to stay.

For hands may point, and voices may surround her,

And shadows may insist on what they see,

Yet none of them can truly ever crown her,

With anything she does not choose to be.

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