Had I but dreamt,

and in dreaming given myself over to hope,
Senses would have told me that my stayed hand spoke softly,
and though such messages tell softly, motivations speak without remorse.
 
Cracked joints told broken dreams told brute behaved in brazen manners their days marked.
Bookmarked pages open again, and fears rush forth anew in eyes old flames.
Flinching fingers twitch and writhe, competing to stay alive.
A staying hand, a show of faith. Do we draw beads of war, or in our inaction take greater risk?