Wash Away

Clenched for so long the fists are jammed,
I have opened them in the past,
Only to fold them in prayer,
The palm stretched to ask,
Has so often become a pointing finger,
That the dislike for my own hands,
At times makes me nauseous.
The need to crawl and hide,
And not come out burns strong,
But I never stay long,
Not long enough to let it sink deep,
To rise ever so slowly,
That the past, present and the future that’s to come,
Gets washed away like a dream...