What would improve this poem?
My hands are cold,
cold, bleeding, and calloused.
Once they scribed beauty with razors and ink,
filled voids from heresy, anguish, and truth.
Upon a time gentle,
smooth and unmarked,
fingers write music, skin ripples through into
two sacred soul-shards glist'ning before me,
singing through blood, thrumming harmonic chant,
both what I've been and must choose to Become,
one Choice of Lust and the other of Passion.
Now all as nothing,
white phosphorous fire,
holes stamped in concrete
like traps for the tiger,
hands worked to leather, from feather to metal--
who had knowledge to wield one...
thou shalt lay down the other.