POETRY

THE LOSING HAND

We never liked each other,

and yet, considered brothers
we hailed the sins of our youth
like pain was a memory to sooth.
In the dying days we laughed
and found them not enough,
as long as we clang to that simple joy
like kids do their toys,
Everything was but a reason to see the world
as if for the first time.
Time has no measures, but the limits of a clock hand.
As I say my goodbyes,
may peace find ya’
Tonight we drink
tomorrow we go on to live.

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