Wednesday, December 28, 2005


Chapped reddened hands
Worn down by decades
Of work, work, work

And I tell her
That I cannot remember
The last time I spoke
I hold out my own hands

As soft
As ripe peaches. They yield
But still I cannot feel
Sporadically, I see

A vision
Of you floating before my eyes
Toughened by time in life
But in death you are

As you were before
And I see but still
I cannot hear
And I flee but still
I feel no fear


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