The World's Favourite Literary Website
The man pondered the veins in the back of his hands
And the black forests that grew between.
These hands were old, gnarled, experienced, worn,
Tired of life, of what they'd done, touched and seen.
Drawing on a pipe that had died hours before,
Pallid funereal ash floated in the air like mites.
Shirt cuffs were threadbare, buttons long gone.
Suffering shorter days and overstretched nights,
He fingered an ancient scar, third finger, left hand,
Recalling his ring, caught up in a weaving loom.
Would've ripped the digit off but the ring broke in time.
Nails too long, filthy, then the room dimmed to gloom.
An odour of silent decay rounded off his day.
His fingers entwined on his greasy lap, as if in prayer
Thumbs tapped a jagged tempo in time with his heart
Gloom dimmed to black, he wanted his days back
But he'd handed them over, resigned, time to depart.
It was at that moment
And with that thought
That unseen to anyone
Tapped their last heartbeat.
Critique this work
Click on the book to leave a comment about this work