My hands look aged today.
Thin lines race through my skin
Forming endless canyons.
My eyes lock their lens
On the erect hairs towering
From my epidermis-
Trying to escape the vast
Wasteland of skin.
My hands feel fragile and weak
Under the force of life recently-
Realization and miscommunication
And the absence of motivation
Portray their diligent pressence
Upon the fading color
Of my skin.