a hand brushed my arm and i looked up
the palm had the callouses of work
but had not yet attained that sandstone quality
that characterized the hands of working men
my eyes wandered over a not so young face
pioneer facial hair colonized baby cheeks
he wasn't a man yet but he was growing up fast
burlesque knuckles stood out on coarse haired hands
a smoke graveled voice spouted harsh swears
skin hardened from years of industrial labor
eyes glazed over with cynicism born of experience
a limp that told of athletic days long passed
bitterness emanated from pores creating a cloud of regret
he wasn't old yet but he was ageing fast
an aged arm reached up and grabbed my wrist
arthritis riddled fingers held me like a vice
skin faded from age clung to his skull
parchment flesh, marked with the stories of life
liver spots and scars, wrinkles and crinkles
a testament to a well worn existence reaching its conclusion
he wasn't a corpse yet but he was dying fast
I enjoy the evolution throughout the poem and the imagery of maturing. Great job. Ugh, you make my poems look like absolute crap.
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