these weathered hands
can't release their wear
each crease of skin
each scar of wound
each mole
each age spot
they form constellations
recounting this life
held in these hands
these battled bones
can't hold onto
what was never theirs
they must rattle
in the constant wind
play a chime
high in the tree
they were hung in long ago
these worn out feet
can't find their path
each turn they've made
only to find a dead end
and they continue on
to the end of the circle
and to wherever
dead may be
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