Crippled Hands

My crippled hands,they hold a burningmorbid aspect yousee I am turning. I burn from within,the flame consumes.I think of sweet things;of flowers in bloom. Soon goes a song Ithought you’re well.But I see you’re hereamdist fumes hell. I burn there too forI explore the fumes.Yet the toxic clichéoverhead it looms. Try to twist me andfind…