What Time Has Handed Us

trace the topography of the hands

time has whittled lines in the skin

like water over rock

these mountains of ours were once impermeable to the storms

but now they shake and tremble

we read the history of our lives in our palms

soon they will be nothing but sand, tossed easily by the wind

how the mountains have eroded, crumbled

these doers of evil

these doers of good

it is nature’s way, we will say

and one finger will follow the other into the dark

scramble over the ridges of our knuckles

follow the lush blue rivers that pulse beneath our skin

the wrinkles are worn out paths, reducing this forest to desert land

there are tales here, buried like unmarked graves in the sand

these doers of evil

these doers of good

these tired gloves pulled over

the hands of childhood

 

Photography by Acton Wright

Poetry by Ellis Wright

 

– Moony and Padfoot

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