Literature
Hand in Glove
How can I grow in this desert?
How can I bloom without rain?
How do I cry without reason?
Yet it happens again and again...
I can still grow without soil,
I can still bloom lacking love,
still I can cry with out prompting,
and somehow this hand fits this glove...
Though it is large and misshapen,
like the haphazard beat of my heart.
Its glove works hard to contain it,
kindred souls and friends from the start.
Slowly the bones become mended,
slowly the bends become straight,
slowly the wrongs can be written,
but quickly comes pain with its fate.
The time honored glove now needs its fixing,
the hand has out grown its old girth