Hand

It is the willingness of the dying that

Can write the last song ever written. 

You see, singing, praying, or more so

When the hands of faith are calling,

When you are sorting out the past,

People find religion, a place where 

Many go to when they fear finding hell. 

Souls whose spirituality sings soft

Lullabies into their last breaths of hope

Have already been through hell. 

Bruised and broken, another tragic case

of knowing you didn’t do it all yourself

But felt the hand of wind guide a path

To the end of and a way to find the will

To blindly seek what comes next. 

From sullen and scared to believer. 

You’ll take the hand of angels over

Another bite from the snake that drags

You to hellish landscapes in your mind.