With Shaky Hands


The only requirements for the job
were strong hands and a strange mind.

Dirt calcifies underneath my fingernails as I carve canyons,
callouses form below my fingers after molding mountains,
and premature wrinkles emerge on my palms when sculpting the sea.

But this is a job made for one without hands.
These hands shake, leaving fingerprints in the sand and
changing the tides with a mistaken smudge of my thumb.
The big bang rings in my ears, reminding me of why I'm here,
as this hollow world waits for an experienced painter to finally
choose his first color.

Nobody has exploited these forests
in search of a new creative platform,
and cities are free of poisonous opinions.
Creative juices haven't
polluted the rivers here yet,
flowing into the caves and
painting the walls with captivating stories of past cultures.

A world with no inhabitants. I'm going to need more hands.

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