Hands- young and taut, thick and thin, wrinkly and not-

They're almost comical-their capabilities- 

A Surgeon heals and stitches, your wounds away,

And mends the broken body.

A friend holds and hugs, your mind to peace,

Haunted thoughts to soothe.

But friendship corrupted, as some conspire,

Those sainted hands can blacken.

And wring the neck of love, long lost,

To exact pain and torture,

No more comfort can come from them,

When Hands are ashen-gray.

To wave and gesticulate,

Animosity and unwarrented hate.

The pat on the back vanishes,

Soon replaced by abuse.

Those malicious Fingers type like little daggers,

Foul, fallacious rumours, to burden the undeserving.

Nobody can justify those Hands.

What actions merit that fundamental crime?

Everyone should strive for acceptance,

To look down at their Finger, and see it,

Not pointed, and not accusing.

To look down at their palm, and make it,

Loving and unclenched-not a fist.

Our Hands should be our own skin,

And not painted with tyranny,

Not inked by vile actions.

And when people acknowledge their worth,

Their Hands are rejuvinated so that,

They, can reach out and touch the lives of others.