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Clue of Age
Clue of Age
I sat, in the garden; took in its surrounds !
View, the wizened crooked wooden fence;
drooped with a crick, a downward glance !
The back of my hands, a reflection of time,
Brittle skinned, blue veined unsteady;
An exhaled breath, of Oh ! a map of
lines, a journey of time passed,was mine;
Turned palms up, no Gypsy teller could see,
my journey, its broken fence, and satsified;
I made no whispered, reaction, or defence.
Copyright ©
John Lusardi
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