The Book

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A thousand thin glaciers,
Countless birds pecking at my bones,
My skin is yellow and wrinkled,
Reflecting my old age.
My battered arms once tough,
My face now unemotional but forever engraved with stories,
Dust covers a layer on me.

My memory is threaded
With occasional tears dripping on my skin,
Blood red and shiny silver mark me.
The same clammy cheek
Sticks to my skin for hours,
But my skin is cold now.
I wonder when I will be
Held in arms,
Dusted off,
And treasured again…





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