Ancient and yellowed hands remember,
their longing for times that were,
when they were soft as down on blankets,
that covered juicy and firm flesh.
A time that was, when they were pink and flexed,
with the virility of stubborn women,
who sought self-assuredness in their hedonistic pleasure.
White knuckles, crevasses as vast and bottomless as,
canyons with no end, that echo, echo as memories fall,
to the limitless pit that is its destiny,
clutch the windowpane as dull eyes gaze,
on the streets where once,
confident and beautiful,
caressed a head of hair so fine,
that it now leaves trances of its soft touch,
on her withered and decrepit hands.
© 2016 Marié Patricia Nicolina Murray