My Hands Remain Persistent

My hands, they are persistent.
They reach for what they want.
Yet my mind remains inconsistent.
It wanders daily to new ideals.

One day I’m a saint, a lover.
The next my palms are hidden,
In a fist of rage, a fighter.
My hands remain persistent.

Perhaps it reflects my true self.
Shame ridden, and guilty of hate.
I reach for the top shelf.
My hands remain persistent.

That shelf holds what I need.
That shelf holds what I want.
My persistent hands grab with greed.
That Good Book that gives relief.