And then I did this: (Kinda rough, might touch it up some and lengthen it later. I like it, though.)

Hands of horror! The stricken man knows not the world
That holds him so fearfully in the grasp of their minds,
For what could be known but such unnatural curvature,
Staggeringly jagged, beautiful if made by man
But not when partly man himself! “Know your home!”, they screech!
“Find your way to a refinery! Know smoke, know fire!”
If he could cover up his face with hands he would,
And yet he is indestructible but by feelings.
He takes their stones better–harsher things, words,
They may well be cast in steel. He once raised a hand to quell them.
It seemed like he had just halfway uncurled a fist,
But eternally held in the position. They opposed his cling to life with horror.
O! If only you could be a noble statue to be beheld!
He has wished many times for his fingers to be burnt, melted,
And then molded to hold another close–
But then he thinks on the pain of heat for them, and like times before,
Knows the sadness of walls.