AtLast_[07]

>> Hand <<

I caught her hand Within a dream Reaching, ware of me, From gentle waves Of tears declined Beneath this ancient face.

Fingers fanned Intention gleaned Beseeching, warily,

Of ageless ways Matured entwined Wreaths of sentient lace. That hand! Mere child's! Pressing. Grasp. Unkind time, untimely gasp, Self reflection so reviled!

Should she, in glory, be so green While I, so wrecked of later knell, Fault of wonder never weaned, Such be heaven, Such be hell, Difference hard to tell.