POEMS ABOUT AGEING

WITHERED HANDS

WITHERED HANDS



Withered hands and wrinkled face,
Of emotion, not a trace;
Half asleep and half awake,
Living only for his sake.


That is what becomes a man,
When he is four score and ten.
He can’t hear and he can’t talk;
Without a stick he can’t walk.

His step is no longer bold;
He can’t stand a touch of cold.
Ten steps are for him a mile;
Empty, toothless is his smile.

That’s what I will be one day.
God, from this keep me away.


• Written in aa bb, 7-7-7-7 format.


• REQUEST—While reviewing, please copy and paste the following in your review: This is a review for “entry:483302".
[Please take care to place within { } the words in inverted commas above].

If that is too difficult, just type the name of the poem in your review. This is important because, otherwise, I may never know which poem you have reviewed, since the review will be shown against the book in which this entry appears.

• Written for Kansaspoet Contest, "Invalid Item" 

M C Gupta
24 January 2007