HANDS OF THE OLD

Caught in a dream

they clutch at the light

beyond the edges of dark

They search for answers

with small flutterings:

Who was it, really,

who lived this life?

Hands speak the unspoken

the silent questions pile up

like uncollected mail

Browning like pages

from an ancient book

they fold

fragile as moth wings

Dried leaves

falling through the night

#OldAge #Aging