The Left Hand and Right

We open our story with two arms on a desk,

Their wrists, their hands,

Their knuckles and features.

One is the left hand and one is the right hand,

They belonged to the same man,

Growing years at a time.

The left hand was taught how to write and to draw,

The right hand was taught how to help the left work,

To help with the arts and not with the writing,

Always lacking in that special form of communication.

The right hand grew jealous of the left and its glory,

Tireless work, masterful precision,

Time tore them both apart.

 

Several Years Later,

The left hand creates consistently with youthfulness

As soft as silk and strong as a bull.

 

Several Years Later,

The right hand will craft and yet never know beauty;

Its art, like its skin, aged with stress and inner pain.

 

The two hands were always twins,

Through purpose and thought, intentions and doubt.

They have gone their two ways.

While they may meet and come together from time to time,

Their hugs and claps and workings together

Simply have no meaning.