The calloused tips
Of my fingers
Have collapsed into a numb
Sleep after years crumpled
Into a fist. Cold
As the bones beneath,
They fumble
Like a child blind
In the dark,
Reaching for a familiar touch.
They find
Nothing. Senseless,
Even to each other,
They shiver
In a row
In the sun.
The pen I clasp
Tells them
Nothing. Another hand
Might help
Shed the stupor
From their pale bodies.
But until then,
My fingers sleep alone.
He Who Wanders 