As I scrawl words upon words upon pages upon pages I cannot help but ponder.

Whose hands are these?

I know that these hands cannot be mine
for these are hands of wisdom
cultivated by years of earthly life I have not seen.
Their bony fingers curl with age beyond their sixteen years of growth.
When held before me, they shake
strained by this prolific era of emotional decline.

I know that these hands cannot be mine
for these are hands of peace
possessed by desires of an altruistic nature I have not felt.
Their painted clay palms ache with frailty that belies their written words of strength.
When I am provoked, they crack
averse to this modern age of primeval violence.

I know that these hands cannot be mine
for these are hands of honesty
enabled by prescience of lucid truths I have not known.
Their complex prints reach with needs of pure intention beneath their frightened masks of stealth.
When grasped in embrace, they tell
as pathways from within to this clear-sighted generation of lost eyes.

These hands cannot be mine
although they have been bestowed upon me and me alone.
Even as these hands and I recede from existence
I shall leave an impression on this ephemeral life
and they shall remain.