My Poetry. The Hands of Time.

Their hands are maps of years gone by,
etched with lines of days that fly.
Soft yet strong, they tell a tale,
of love, of loss, of tempests pale.

Their eyes still gleam with memories bright,
dances in the golden light.
Echoes of laughter, songs once sung,
when hearts were wild, and youth was young.

They walk a pace both slow and wise,
gazing at the changing skies.
Seasons shift, the world moves fast,
but wisdom lingers, built to last.

So listen close, embrace their grace,
honor time upon each face.
For in their stories, deep and true,
lies the path we all walk through.

© William Sinclair Manson 2025