A Dance in Silent Violins

The pain surged from his sleep
As he fell out of it
Breaking his night. A crack
On the center of his back
A third hand grew.

The third hand grew
As he spread his original hands
To pick his bloodstains
From the dusts and floors.
The third hand grew
Picking up invisible times
Sprinkled onto the places
He’d placed his back to.

Sweat. As his fingers darkened,
Moistened the flute holes. Loop-holes.
He created the music of sweats.
Sweats that dripped upon claustrophobic spaces
From his first ten fingers
And on a passed-away time
From his other five.

Time
Like curtains on his windows
Danced with the winding notes.
Revolutions. Creeping on it
His third hand grew into his past
It brought back a broken wing,
The second pillow, colorful lights and him.

One night, once again,
He found his second him
Sleeping on the second pillow
Not letting go, for once, of his third hand
Secured in his nightmares
Filtered of the future he had found.

And as his hand stretched
Further and further
Into the times left behind
He trembled
Thinking, just how many hands
He’d lost till he found the third;
Fearing, just how many hands
Must his third arm retrieve
To give an arm to their third arms
On everyone’s back
Where their wings should have been.

One day, he dropped his arms.