According to an old man's word,
his life story could be only heard,
read by what were written in his hands,
from his soft touch barely measure,
for little felt of any pressure,
as to bend the hairs of a peach,
for his skin so calloused rough by life lessons teach,
of waves crushed on rocks made a sand paper beach,
tell the stories of his hard fought love only to be lost of each,
ended in the battles held within,
the words of arguments just out of reach,
said of hearts hearing how he loved them just wanting to keep,
all he loved always within arms reach,
when times grew stark,
to be held in the dark of his cut and scarred palms toughened as leather,
but still held together,
softly spoke of all the dirt worked in dug to such depths in the creases of his skin,
even after a million washes
still look bottomless
as casms,
so deep
felt in the wrinkles of his hands
by the long lengths of time,
spent...