Give me your imperfect hands,
Gnarled from years of molding this land.
Full of wrinkles and valleys of age,
Always held with kindness unstated.
Sculpt the beauty of our mortality,
Show me inbound forms of vitality.
Laugh with mouth upturned in mirth,
Show me how much you think you’re worth.
Let me touch your aching soul,
And fulfill our lost-lovers role.
Michael is a husband, father, writer, poet, and aspiring author. He finds time to scribble down his thoughts in the dead of night, between ghosts and night owls. If you’d like to read more of his poetry follow the link here. Or to visit his full blog, ‘The Ink Owl’ click here.