Withered Hands


Blood still stains his weary hands,
Withered by time and sun.
A constant reminder of growing old,
And past deeds having been done.
Of men he killed, and widows he made,
Of orphaned children and freedom forbade.
Of blood, sweat ,and tears,
And of long forgotten fears.
A time where War was king,
And soldiers served him true.
A past of pain and agony,
He wishes he could undo.
But now he's old and weary,
A relic from a time long gone.
He closes his eyes one last time,
And opens them at home.

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