Poetry - Death, Demise . . .

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Poetry - Hands

 

Hands. —

My hands tend to crack,

And with that snap,

They hold my pencils and pens,

For me to mend the minds of others
My pen is a part of that plan,

But alas,

My art ; my work,

My work ; my passion,

But without these aching hands,

My art wouldn't stand.