Spirals of beautiful hardship are overlooked
for the white beds atop and small wrists below,
but, on further glance, these indentations that
swiftly turn and branch just so
when the fingers are stretched straight
like the slender trunks of deep dark trees,
the indents swerve and curve in unending
motionless circles that the lines can never flee,
like gnarled pathways etched into flesh,
drawn like spider webs in grains of sand
that will grow bulbous and grotesque with time, but
now it will help its fingers bend to hold my tender hand.
I saw a picture of a famous musician, and oddly enough I was taken aback by how beautiful his knuckles were. I felt so strange that I had to write a poem about how knuckles are the underdog of beauty.
Hope you like it!