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Hands

Rating: 5.0

I look at my hands often wrinkled and old.What a story to be told.These hands have held, hugged and fought.So many bags were bought.They fumble sometimes but that's alright because they are mine.Dry and rough but best believe they are tough.The older they get the better they are.I remember that scar and that one to.Such memories these hands of mine, that I will always treasure unit the end of time.

Monday, February 26, 2018
Topic(s) of this poem: growing old
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COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Gajanan Mishra 26 February 2018

treasure unit, end of time

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