Scars

My poor hands,
Sore,
Raw and weathered,
Tethered to the hate
Of myself.
A wealth of pity
Undeserved
Scarring my knuckles,
Buckles at the loss
Of control.
The soul wretches,
Stretches the skin
And in they go
Slow.
The tears come,
Fears undone
As the revoltion
Burns with acidity,
The loss of lucidity -
Instant.
Stars fill my eyes
And I cry at the scars
That have opened
Like a door
Once more
Upon my poor, 
Poor hands. 

Copyright © 2013 by Simon Austin