Withered


I see a hand that’s withered, 

frail and getting old.

Clinging onto memories, 

some stories left untold.

The table that you sit on, 

an ancestor for sure.

Down into the forest, 

there’ll be many more.

Once you waved from branches, 

now crumbling away.

A topic of the artists mind, 

in his art you’ll stay.

~ Liza

lizalizaskysaregrey©2016

13 thoughts on “Withered”

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