Grip

Their stories and scars, the things they grasp.

All rough and worn, but strong.

Everyone has them they come in pairs

But these ones, are special.

I love to watch them in action, I often stare.

Or sneak a peak when no one is there.

They dance on keys and caress horsehair strings.

A kind pat on the back, or a warm embrace

Its of these things I think, when I think of them.

The way they grip my shoulders or slide over my curves

Confidently clutch the wheel, and shift the gears.

Expertly they hold the thin leather, reins,

They gently guide a horse’s mouth

They’re beaten and battered, with stories to tell

With strength they don’t know

These hands use not their strength for inflicting pain

But guide and encourage

They hold me tight, and things I can’t control

Letting go with a warning.

It’s these particular hands I cannot leave

With gentle persuasion they pull me back

Every time they ask, I gladly come

For something ties me to them, and them to me.

west

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