The Hand's Hidden Rivers Poem by Bernard F. Asuncion

The map etched deep, a cryptic, skin-worn chart,
No oceans blue, but valleys of the heart.
These lines of palm, a whispered, ancient script,
Where fate and chance in subtle shadows slipped.

A lifeline's curve, a river flowing slow,
Or jagged breaks where sudden currents go.
A head line's path, a mountain's rugged crest,
Where thoughts ascend, or in deep canyons rest.

The heart line's arc, a tender, fragile thread,
Where love's bright bloom, or bitter tears are shed.
A sun line's gleam, a fleeting, golden ray,
Or starbursts faint, where dreams begin to fray.

These fragile roads, upon a mortal plain,
A story told, in sunshine and in rain.
No rigid route, no predetermined way,
But shifting sands, that shape us day by day.

The lines may fade, or new ones intertwine,
A constant flux, a truly human sign.
For life's a journey, etched upon the hand,
A whispered truth, we barely understand.