The Hands of Ferris Bueller

Once I wanted to be Ferris Bueller;
a teenage allowance for depravity.
I wanted my hands to follow spontaneous
violence without punishment; but that
time is gone and the hours grow, stalking up from boney posts,
sometimes time is like sallow snow. Poured
waste on a white canvas, yellow spreading

My hands move with direction now, working
with deep cuts, scars and consequence.