Grey Hands

They peer down at these grey hands

Now a dead wall, with nothing to see

Striated, grazed by the days gone by

Yet dead, blank, in her eyes

A second, all it is

The corrugations embedded in flesh

Layers mushrooming in front of her eyes

The return to dust

As is the path of all living

The cackles and simpering unbearable

The walls giving no shelter

A false shield

When it seems all has ended

Now nothing to anchor to the living

None to listen

None to understand

None to embrace

She looks over at the void beside her

An unmarked canvas, an abyss of suffering and hate

Beyond her reach

Does it all count for anything, she asks

Did it mean anything?

And then, descending on that horror

The repulsive plane of foreboding

Too terrible to contemplate

Oh, why does it surface now?

Not now, not ever

I will not sully what remains, she says

But deep in her heart, she always knew

Losing was a certainty

As the falling of autumn leaves

As a river runs to the sea

And so it imprints on her mind

Forcing her to see

And to accept

Was it even…?