Hands Of Time

The past it can haunt;

making feet drag in mud.

Destructing destinations

possessing light of love.

I linger in memories I

struggle to look ahead.

If my feet they move not

I fear my heart is dead.

The scepter I’ve made,

forged from remembering,

has soiled my humility

stayed newness entering.

What am I if not made

from father time’s hands?

The pieces I keep are

what make me who I am.

2 Comments Add yours

  1. aflawedpearl says:

    Love it!

    Liked by 1 person

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