Cold Hands
When I was a child, God kissed my hands
It filled them with so much love they hurt
It was given to me as an act of providence, so I relished in it
In the palms of my hands, I clutched this renaissance
I am but a man
So soon did that fade away
With that I took up the philosopher’s stone
I sought to reignite the fervor I lost
So I started with my heart
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If it were not for my daily constitutions, it would soon run cold
Then my head
If I were not able to observe this warmth, how would I know it was real?
Next were my feet
I had to be able to keep up with it, lest it slip away again
And finally my hands
As they were the coldest
They were the only way I could clench this conviction
But like most things, this sanctification did not last
What was once a divine communion now felt faint
For even now, I dream to warm these cold hands
