The pen less handless hand writes and unwrites the script of eternity,
Not in any order nor in a straight line,
The table, the chair, the air and this derrière,
Scripted without purpose or meaning.
It writes the human and adds the subplot of self awareness,
And if handless hands could chuckle they would, with an eyebrow cocked and a wry smile.
It constructs and deconstructs this infinite place like a field of atoms, sub atoms, non atoms and universes of space in between, indivisible and endless.
An undulating vast ocean enervating and elevating, expressive and still.
Expounding and crystalizing, without outcome and completion.
It writes death and life without either of them being or coming to fruition.
It writes laughter and sadness like the rising and falling of breath in the night,
Dissipating like it never was.
The handless hands, the embrace of love, the caress of life.
Beautiful in it's anonymity, kindness and cruelty.