Withered Hand

J. Lynne Moore

A withered hand waits,
For the touch of youth.
Fearing now the loss…
The reality of stubborn truth.

The repetition of sunrise,
Has left it’s wrinkled mark;
And still the withered hand…
Waits, as the shadows grow dark.

Faded now, the journey’s road,
Bellows caution, dead end…
And as the moments linger,
The withered hand does ascend.

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