Concatenation

You need to wash your hands.
Cleanse your God-given tools
So tuned and responsive, capable
Of good, of evil, of resentment,
Also of forgiveness.

The evidence is there for
Everyone to see. your knuckles
Bruised and swollen. sticky
Blood spatter and salty sweat.
The dirt under your fingernails:
The memories lacking the mercy
To recede, to dissipate, to
Wash away. what is held,
What is felt, even unconsciously,
While we sleep, while we work,
While we live and love.

You need to wash your hands.
The places you’ve been
Have not released you yet
From their grasp, their attention.
Millions of microbes,
Billions of bacteria teeming
On your unknowing epidermis.
Carried with you, silent
Invisible threats, micro-terrorists
Lying in wait, sleeper cells
Biding their time quietly yet
Ever-ready for you
To let down your guard.
To close your eyes. to sigh.

You need to wash your hands.
They are your parents’ hands.
They are years of sacrifice;
Scrubbing floors and breathing bleach
And knocking down doors and changing oil,
Carrying groceries, worrying and scratching,
Restless. trying so hard to hold on,
To climb up, and finally to let go.

Your hands are stained with
Life and death, birth and murder,
The blood of generations.
You may bask in your blissful
Self-indulgence and gratuitous ignorance,
But your hands have not forgotten.
And if you stop for a second
And acknowledge them, you will find
Them pulsating, fevered, grave and
Solemn in their gravity, the weight
Of history, of purpose, of indolence and of action.
They have served you dutifully,
And now it is time for you to serve them.

You need to wash your hands.
To move on. to build anew
Unencumbered by calluses,
Enriched by pure sensation;
A future rooted in honest implementation
Of such wise artifacts.

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About brokeMC

Artist: Graphic Design, Audio Production, Photo and Film Production and Editing, Painting, Writing, and all other manner of creative indulgence. and my moonwalk is ill.
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