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I Stay, I Go


17th October 2002

11:05am: Poem by Verian Thomas (verian)

Hands at 33 1/3

Today I noticed the veins
showing through at the knuckles,
skin looser, the map of lines
more clearly defined.

They were not my hands at all
but those of my father.

It was then
that I understood,
I was going to die.


He's right, you know. It's the hands. The hands that warn us of our mortality. You see, I only see my face a few times a day and not that closely. But the hands. The hands are always there. The hands that get more loose-skinned and leathery and splotched as the weeks & months & years roll by. No, not leathery. More like scales. It still surprises me. I feel so young and strong.

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