A Game of sorted hands
we all assume to play.
The things with words we cannot say.
Bonds of the Heart we mold as clay.
So easily folded, all forms taken this way.
Given the moment we lead astray.
Tomorrow could be found dried in decay.
So forgive those that have gone away,
and cherish the ones who choose to stay.
About the Creator
Michael_Angelo
I live and work in Canada and I've had a love of poetry and story making since I was a child. With age, I have only taken on more life experience to draw from. I have been and lived in this country from coast to coast.
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