The hands that hold the strings of chance are fickle as can be
All stories telling of them make it very clear
Directionless, they jerk and shrug arrhythmically
Every single day, each and every year
We wrench and fight, only to find ourselves entangled
While the hands dance on, blind and uncaringly numb
Fingers stomping like feet upon corpses mangled
Wrapped in the dissonance beating life’s deaf drum
Searching endlessly and trying hard as we might
The threads are destined to remain always unseen
So dance, Hands, dance! Free of harmony, build our plight
In these endless steps there must be something to glean
Copyright 2011
See Andrew Whiting. Read Andrew writing. 