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Silver Soul

Gently running my hand across old printed photographs

Old skin turned to dust reached out to me

Hands of the clock trying to lay their fingertips against mine

And guide me through their lives

Smiles as the then young adults watched children try to eat pie with no hands

Pretending to be hippies, women in their youth so slender, skin ringing clear laughter

And all the love and smiles that became deep wrinkles

Engravings of a silvered soul

©️ The Sad Owl

Categories: poetry Prose

Tagged as:

The Sad Owl

I'm just here. Until I'm not.

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