An art of nature implicates,
Such fine lines so intricate.
Knuckles turned into knots,
Over time’s endless plots.
Venation of veins are so poignant.
Posing as preamble of being gallant.
The journey took from toy fiddling,
to the times of land tilling.
It must’ve hardened those bones.
Music of maturity added new tones.
With the wounds and bruises,
They must’ve sowed seeds of muses.
Lost its vigour and figure.
Like rings losing grasp of its finger.
Today, they fold up in Lord’s praise.
Today, they rotate rosary in Lord’s grace.
These frail hands, brings me to the emphasis,
That ageing is a majestic morphosis.
#art Development over time that happens biologically, mentally, spiritually in everything around us is also a form of art.
This poem I wrote it back in 2017, when I lost my great grand-mother and I took one of last pictures of her hands that actually inspired me to jot these lines down.
This poem has been published in an anthology called "Panache-1" by publishing house bookfever.