My weary hands reflect the works of my life,
and my heart is humbled by the countless tears I shed.
I blind myself to the good I've done,
only to judge myself harshly when I'm in bed.
Every day I measure who I've become
by the sight of my empty human hands.
It seems that I lose a piece of my soul,
when life knocks me into despair's sands.
Time keeps aging the fragile skin
that holds youth's beauty in its place.
Each proud mirror that looks at me,
sees sorrow's wrinkles ironed into my face.
My empty hands reflect my soul's story,
but my pride has clouded my own sights.
I hold grief's hand so tenderly,
as life guides me through my heart's broken nights.