The hardest tasks,
Are nothing,
Compared to the effort,
It takes to truly love another.

Hands are unique,
Rough, soft, old, new, large or small.
But they often link,
When all hope,
Appears bleak.

Often I wonder,
To what end is your touch?
How can your fingers,
Still gather and refine,
New threads of my soul?

The word "child" speaks of innocence,
From it's beginning to end,
And yet,
The child is shown violence and horror,
The seen evil dwarfs every adult before them,
And yet they smile,
Though bound to a world of guilty.

Just one more round I said,
Halfway through the third,

I miss that raw feeling,
Of being alive,

For now,
I zombie through life.

I don't have time for negative vibes,
Drugs, theft, or wine,

My quest log is already too full.