Even bones have their snapping point, they
Crack and crunch under the strain of too long
Eyes can see to much, grow old, fine lines appearing
Along the edge, the colour fading to grey, too
Many horrors seen, too many days.
Hands become like parchment, all written over,
The plainness changed until everything is covered,
Age printed on the pages.
Too tires, too much, too soon.
I pray for a break, otherwise break is precisely
What I will do.


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