Hands which cannot hold,
hold one purpose in life.
When we die, they will not comfort us,
will not sense our fear,
our anger,
our sadness.

They will simply be as they have always been.
We'll feel desperate to have them turn back,
to make some sort of change,
to reach out and hold our own;
but that will never be.

The hands of time,
they are not kind,
not compassionate.

When we die, and we all must go,
they will continue on,
ever so slow.