The Outcasts. (Revised).

I cannot tap out Morse Code messages,

or draw simple patterns in the air

with outstretched fingers.

My hands are now so wrecked

the keyboard is a minefield to my touch,

and pens often end up on the floor,

I don`t know why it hurts so much to grip them.

Am Dram is our natural way of being,

so if you wish to talk to me with signs,

please indicate your meaning with a glance,

or come out front and mime a scene or two.

Do this and I shall know just how to answer,

with a wink, a nod, a seraphic loving stare,

                             a quirky sideshow guffaw

as I nudge and elbow obstacles aside

to try and keep the sight lines unencumbered.

Truth is a shadow danced across your lips,

a sort of dumb show clear to us alone,

We can also speak through touch, with hugs and kisses;

our foreheads pressed together in the dark.

My hands are snarled in knots,

                          bashed up and nearly useless,

curled in upon themselves like mollusc shells,

the life and love lines tangled, cut to shreds,

                                 meshed and badly frayed.

I can no longer hold a book, a pen, a pencil,

throw a ball or wear a pair of gloves,

but these clumsy paws can still stretch wide and clap,

set free when you step up to take the stage.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

Poem first sketched, (as End Of Term Love), September 18th. - 19th. 2016.

Rewritten between November 18th. 2021. - May 12th. - July 31st. 2022.