Remarkable hands, storied hands.

Hands, hands can build.

Hands can mold, shape, and speak.

Hands can grasp for the heavens, touch it, and believe in the make believers.

Through the fingers, thoughts explode as pen touches paper.

Tones and melodies erupt from inner emotions becoming reality.

Heart and soul become one as fingers scrawl quickly, feverishly.

Pounding blood surges through the fingers forcing the pen onward, causing tears to fall from an eye.

Truth flows from the mind; the hand transports it into being.

Embracers of the brush, digits move carefully following intricate lines drawn on canvas.

Colors blend together, vibrant, beautiful, soaring to mosaics of sky and water.

The calming sense of touch slows the scene until order graces the fabric.

Forgotten until they are lost.

Forgotten until they are crippled, hands are taken for granted for their life-giving talent.

Bent and crooked they are silenced from the song they once sang.

Memories now distant are relegated to the wall or museums.

Dusty shelves house the books of the once pulsating, vital, movements that the hand generated.

Hands have saved lives and taken them just as easily.

They create the saviors of life as well as the purveyors of death.

Creating and destroying with a single move a finger can move mountains or search the unknown heavens.

Hands live to caress and love.

Hands live to fight and die.

Forever living hands, forever exploring are hands.