The left hand of opulence
does not reach the bell that rings
when the game is over.
We went to over time
and no one found the keys
to the car that drives itself
into the deep puzzling waters
of beauty.
Beyond the screeching cries of lack
hands open and close without the prize
they cannot see and will not touch.
The silent silver bell rings
and the vibrations carry
far into the night.
daninmaya 
Whoa, did you hear Ash Wednesday’s Gospel reading about not letting one hand know what the other is doing? Your poem is like the dark side of that message, opening ways to completely contradict our convictions and actions. Good work.
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Thanks for your comment. I’ll have to contemplate the context of your words. I think I have a “what did you mean what did I mean” hat somewhere. Taking dictation at 3 am……
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