When did my hands get so old?
just when did they transform?
They were soft, and smooth, and solid once
and now they look deformed.

When did this take place,
the construction of these lines?
Is it that I don't remember,
what had happened over time?

But each wrinkle tells a story,
of things I did and learned,
of digging sand, and holding hands,
of loving and getting burned.

These hands have touched heroes
and clapped hard with admiration.
These hands have rocked babies
straight into sedation.

These hands are a map
to everything I am.
Should you like to get to know me,
just come and shake my hand.


You and I should get away.
Go on a short-timed trip.
You and I should just sit back
And allow our minds to slip.

We can go to Africa,
to see a pink chimpanzee.
Or ride a purple elephant,
and eat special baked brownies.

We can go to England
and have tea with the Queen.
We'll try on the guard's fuzzy hats,
then cough until we're green

We can go to Alaska
and have a snowball fight,
Shit! Now I've lost my fuckin' buzz,
Man, give me another light.


Wolves devour the final bits,
licking their lips in content.
A man walks away
caring not for the loss.
The fresh mountainside is renewed again.
Silence is heard throughout the valley
A mother weeps quietly in the bloodstained grass.
She wishes it were not this way;
but for her family to flourish,
sacrifices must be made.

As blood returns to the earth,
spirits return to the sky.
Balance is returned to her family,
though grief will not part her mind.

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