Category : Poems

Sub Category : N/A

Purple veins strain against the skin. 
Pale translucent, paper thin. 
Skinny fingers clawed in monstrous shapes , 
Brown spots from years, that she can't erase... 


Now wrinkled and fragile, weak and sore, 
So many things she can't do anymore. 
Some days she feels she's been betrayed
By the cruelty of her advancing age... 


She rubs her hands to ease the ache
And recalls the  life they held to make. 
She looks at them and feels the loss, 
Living a life bears a very high cost. 


Miraculous hands that protected and soothed, 
Hands that conveyed her every mood. 
Hands so strong they could carry the weight, 
That would never give up and never forsake. 


Those hands that took little but always gave, 
Hands that applauded each achievement made. 
Those soft hands that gently cared, 
For those sick or lost in dark despair. 


Hands that fussed and fumbled that day, 
When they gave their daughter away. 
Those hands holding tight as he slowly died, 
Caressing his brow as she stood by his side. 


Hands that were  always so willing to give, 
Hands that reveal a life fully lived. 
Small feeble hands now empty and cold, 
These hands that each day will keep growing old. 


These hands that she now tends to hide away, 
These hands that at times made her feel ashamed. 
Useless and unworthy in her eyes, 
They rest in her lap as she quietly cries. 


But I see the hands of a hero so true, 
A woman who survived what this life put her through. 
A woman whose heart still shimmers like gold, 
With the hands of a warrior  who made her mark on this world.