frozen to the desk they were left on, white with red stripes.
The hands and head left to find powers.
In the journey, and struggle for wind and sun,
the head and hands turned on each other.
Half-dead, thrashed, bleeding, black, and wretched. Inching back to the desk.
Their survival can only come from the white and red laying muffled.
The numb, and blood-slippery hands scratch at the ice, gouging what it thinks is the barrier to it's salvation.
The effort is for naught. The barrier doesn't exist. Hasty method has led to extinction.
The head finally rolls back, blind.
Hot breath, enough to melt the ice, and desperate licks free the red and white no longer muffled.
The hands fallen and desecrated, are pitied by their brother, once a friend, who made it.
The turtle won the race again.
I have hands.
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