My hands are weary
They’ve borne me these years,
through holding, pawing, grappling and releasing.
They are marked and scarred
albeit, telling the stories mouth can only gape at.
My head aches, throbbing.
The veins; like a course into its voyage, now showing.
in defiance to my plea to submerge
Lining up creases like an old sailors map.
Pulsing still, I wonder at what.
My feet can no longer carry me
The dusts only, psst psst at their underfoot drumming
Life is more gentler trounced have found
you can prop, hop but don’t jump, else drop
and be covered in dusts, psst psst psst.
My shoulders are drooping
bearing broader bales bereft of bailing.
On them the burden lays
the whole 20inch length of it
And all I show off are the protruding bones.
My voice is swish swash
I have hooted, shouted and whooshed with it.
On things this big, on things that small
On things heretofore on things theretofore
I whooshed then swished, even an echo I pray for.
In hope I pray with them still
Maybe He will pay attention seeing them
Then I will live again by my members.