But what can he do but touch,
For he cannot see,
Not a shape nor a color,
Al he has are his hands.
His hearing, which once was great,
Is dwindling away,
Like his frail body,
And all he can do is touch.
His loved ones voices start to fade,
And he no longer knows,
What goes on around him,
But his touch brings back the past.
And this old mans blood runs cold.
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Comments about this poem (Fragile by Samantha Desmond )
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