Skip to content


March 30, 2019

WHERE did they come from? These old man’s hands, down at the end of my arms.
They can’t be mine, mine are young, strong and calloused. They always kept me from harm.
These fingers are aching, they’re gnarled and bent. They refuse to do what they’re told.
I stare at these hands, so worn out and spent. They tell me I’m growing old.

No comments yet

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: