Raised Weathered Hands

Raised Weathered Hands

by Rick Bonner

With raised weathered hands he closes his eyes, to clear his weary mind.
Drawing upon the power of the universe to be his soulful guide.

God are you out there somewhere, bemused by this facile shell?
Is this heartbeat merely an echo, of thirst by an empty well?

Is love an accident of coincidence, or a ripple constantly expanding?
Is his fatigue and exhaustion merely a test, of endurance for the last man standing?

With raised weathered hands he shields from the sun, then kneels beneath the acacia tree.
A lone tribal hunter with spent, aching bones and so many mouths to feed.

He is a loyal free thinking spirit, prostrate through the plains alone,
Seeing patterns within the soil of creation, seeking ways to bring nourishment home.

Are we born on this rock for a purpose? Or to procreate and feed?
Can he bow to the will of god, as he explores these ethereal seas?

With raised weathered hands he shouts aloud and lets out a sorrowful cry.
As a child the rules were simple, but then again that's a re-written lie.

Is love a luxury when you're trying to survive and the rivers have baked and crusted?
He needs strength and energy from the universe and the power of a spear ever trusted.

Are we lambs on an unknown journey, or searching for the heart of creation?
Does each star shine down to inspire as a canvas for our imagination?

With raised weathered hands he close his eyes to give thanks for every day.
Are these positive thoughts an energy, only available when he prays.

We are like the tiniest pebble, within an endless sea of sand.
But the lone hunters love for his family, was neither circumspect nor planned.

Will the power of the universe answer his prayers? Let the cool rain deluge these lands,
So he may know by the power of nature's delight,
He made a difference with Raised Weathered Hands.