Weathered hands

My pen glides across the paper smoothly, endless lines, stanza by stanza. Prose by prose. Black, magnificent ink flows across the page, like a river, my thoughts exposed, for all the world to see. Uninhibited, unfiltered, raw, poignant. But my hands are in pain, terrible pain as the strain of writing takes a toll on my weather-worn hands. Can’t you see? It is crying out in agony, lashing out in pain. These hands, they have journeyed through storms and vast seas with me. These hands, they dance on the piano effortlessly. But, now, they are tired. They are very tired of trudging on, just like me.


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