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My Father's Hands

Just a little poem at three am.
The hands of my father...

Callused, scared, and burned.
Ominous at the sight,
They could instill the fear of God.

He was no God,
But the devil himself dared him not.
They were hands forged by industry.
Skillful and unforgiving.

These hands taught me
To never disrespect a woman.
To never lie,
And to always do things right the first time...

Maybe I haven't quite
Learned my lesson on that last one,
Now I look at my father's hands
And see that they are mine.

I do not deserve them,
Nor do I want them.
Callused, scared, and burned as were his,
They know not love...
By
Published: 12/16/2010
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