Gesturing hand.

I demonstrate, the pen is my wand.
The magic is in my gesturing hand.
Differentiating a puddle from a pond.
My gesticulating expands.
 
My physical expression often froze.
Whilst under scrutiny I struck a pose.
Almost conjuring a lick of a sigh...
The edge of a gasp...
Eye contact flies.
 
My gesturing hand is the waves of the sea.
The hills of the land.
The hair of the dog.
The hungover strand.
 
It is my cry for help,
my attempt to enlighten.
The wavery flame of this rusty lantern.
 
My sure illusion ushered with fingers.
Creative pollution that only begs sniggers.
Two palms that open and close.
These...
Fists of frustration never meet repose.