Those cold, weary hands

By Revon Dias

Those cold wrinkled hands, Which rung our doorbell every morn; Curves of love That would greet us without any scorn Faded away at the eve’s dusk Reaped by the harvester like fresh, golden corn.

That disciplined routine throughout your life which you did follow, The bitter black tea and walking every mile your physique did you grow; You never asked for assist did your chores, even with a pace may be slow, Long hour talks of wisdom Some things much more than me did he know

A strong spine later embraced by steel; Even in his old times Never refused to walk a mile or kneel, If you would sit with him for a while many stories he would tell; From rising prices to interest rate Even the boring news that made me swell, The nuts and chocolates can never be forgotten at the absence of my mom, without ringing the bell.

Those happy little moments that sweet and comfy life, His last birthday that he spent with his wife. When he laid over numb, crept into the dust Felt like our heart was stabbed by a knife Hearts cried when you flew into the heavens leaving us in grief’s strife.

Your life was monotonous but it really left a mark, our relationship was not of blood, but still yes, had a spark; Hope to see you again If we pass the test, made by heaven’s Clark.

By Revon Dias