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The Architect
October 20, 2008
His hands were perfectly moulded.
Thick fingers tinted brown,
they glow with precision through
their almost permanent coat of grime.
Years of his trade had crafted them;
trophies of strenuous trials and errors.
Cold are the fingertips that haven't
touched the warmth of other flesh
in so many years.
Hardy and strong, they would be
the hands of a rock, were
they granted any.
But the hands are of a father,
the trait remaining unpassed to
any future generation.
The worthy hands will die proudly
in their uniquity.
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