my old hands

Toils round on his weary grounds
The sheets and the dirt of the room
His ashed up silken hair
His worn out wrinkled skin
All begging the ground for some return.

All these brown colors once were bright
His deep blue eyes
With No twinkle today to capture another mysterious glance,
Used be as wayward that even beautiful girls of today were reminded of coyness
and even girls of today were worried of a capture by their grace

His fallen lips that got no flirting to deal
Used be as ripe as hard cherry
And now they fear a glass of water to touch

And now his whole body is in a waiting room
And unconscious fear and fear and fear

His arms once were the surest pillars of embrace
Melting the hearts of so many lovers in them breasts
His heart the drum welcoming them home, the wilderness of youth, shouting within
And now its all hung out to dry

Fingers same as an 80 and so years ago
He knows it
he knows these are the same hands
Same ones that had stolen, loved, touched, danced, beaten, broken, felt, healed, warmed, frozen, hurt, brushed, cooked, cared, held, and slept
But they look different to others
And when they slept they were forgotten
But he knew these were the same fingers
He knew they were his with all that they had done
And he never forgot