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Aged Hand
by Biana  Yanovsky

Trembling it holds me,
Love at each finger's end.
With slight movements,
A message it attempts to send.

It tells me that it's dying,
And deprived of affection,
like the body it belongs to, 
filled with a spreading infection.

I love the person
Who's the owner of this aged hand.
My love is real,
I do not pretend.

For this hand was once young,
Touched both hot and cold.
A hand that's aged,
Is more valuable than gold.
        
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Poem ID: 37591   Poem Posted: 1/16/2001
Viewed: 11938  Voted On: 210  E-mailed: 29  Commented On: 3
 
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Copyright , 7-1-98, Biana Yanovsky  all rights reserved by the author.
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