Poetry: The Hand

The hand was slapped and it stung. The hand turned red and throbbed. A hand is a hand, it doesn't understand the reason. The only thing it understood was the pain. The hand dunked in ice and avoided that place. The place that it thought was familiar but had caused the slap.
The hand missed that place and noticed from afar all the things that went on there. Was it time to go back? Was it allowed to? If only reasons were clear, if only the place had braille for the hand to see and understand. But there were only scratches.
The hand went back, just briefly. Thoughts of sorting out the situation fell dead at the stop-- there was the place and too many memories flooded in that the hand shook and stress overwhelmed. This wasn't the way, this wasn't the time. What the hand wished to express came out in tatters and what it held in peace was dropped as it left.
The place sang a song then and emotions came out illegible. It could have been a knell or the sound of a new dawn... the hand could only feel the vibrations. Cautiously it moved, uncertain of the proper dance, waiting for its partner to lead but it seemed they were waiting for the same thing.
The song was coming to a close or maybe a bridge or something. A shift was made, subtle it went and the tense worsened. The hand lost grip on its partner and
The song was not longer legable. Impossible to tell if it still played and the silence was a new one, a new uncertainty to face.
How quickly a situation spirals into something so foreign.
What was a hand to do? It called out to the place, let us return. In acting naturally the dance can be reformed. The time is limited and altogether sporadic but what is loose is tossed like rice for a maid; willingly and in a loose fashion. There needs to be just one grain that lands in the hair for the situation to snare.
Another slap. Jumbled in the wind only some meaning got through: the hands effects were all wrong, all the blame is on you. Don't you know how to dance? Don't you know how to return? For not seeing the road, all you get is scorn. Don't you have eyes? Can't you see what has been written? The desire is peace and you caused guilt-stridden. The path has been torn and there is little to share, why give more when this is how you fair?
The hand fell, just wishing for an end. What grace could be given for one too stupid to understand?
The hand reached out, just one last chance. One last question, would you care for a dance?
A reply came late and it was barely heard-- I'll consider one last dance, I'll give the word.