Empty Handed (Sonnet of Sorrow Number One)

Empty Handed (Sonnet of Sorrow No. 1) My empty hand awaits in chronic form to feel accepting fingers' tendered press. The warmth within me wanes in Sorrows' storm. My patience turns to fear as I regress. The waves of opportunity have ebbed. The sands of sympathy are swept away. My barren palm of hope, though always webbed - finds loneliness its only catch each day. The desperation of my outstretched hand parades a bleeding heart for all to see. And even though my mind can't understand - a loveless life may be my destiny. My well of hope's run dry, but I'm composed. No tears are left to cry - my hand is closed.