What Is Safe?
To fulfil my hands, I journeyed up, down the rocky hill Holding closely my trembling hands That longs to be used Used for a purpose Higher than the lines set, the limits, the boundaries. Ones that threatens the paths, blurry but permanently set. On my palm, the journey that begins In shaky dark lines and slowly lights it way up and clearer. To fulfil my hands I fold them not, rather, Widely I spread, I act, not ask Boldly, not as told Holding firmly unto , That which is thorny Scalding and burning But up ahead, is a river Abundant in coolness with warmth that runs the vein soothingly. To fulfil my hands What I do is not written in Single Average Fickle or Equality.
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