The Hand's Hidden Rivers

The map etched deep, a cryptic, skin-worn chart, No oceans blue, but valleys of the heart. These lines of palm, a whispered, ancient script, Where fate and chance in subtle shadows slipped. A lifeline's curve, a river flowing slow, Or jagged breaks where sudden currents go. A head line's path, a mountain's rugged crest, Where thoughts ascend, or in deep canyons rest. The heart line's arc, a tender, fragile thread, Where love's bright bloom, or bitter tears are shed. A sun line's gleam, a fleeting, golden ray, Or starbursts faint, where dreams begin to fray. These fragile roads, upon a mortal plain, A story told, in sunshine and in rain. No rigid route, no predetermined way, But shifting sands, that shape us day by day. The lines may fade, or new ones intertwine, A constant flux, a truly human sign. For life's a journey, etched upon the hand, A whispered truth, we barely understand. ©bfa031425