Phantom Hands
Phantom hands grasp
When never severed
Reaching, Tearing, Pressing
Few hold long
Many falter
Each leave marks of passing
Which burn
With what once was
Gone are those hands
Which now haunt so vividly
It is those which hurt the most
That we now hold so dearly
Yes
Gone are those hands
Which mattered most
In their place
Mere aching ghost
Those who lain so calm
In plans
Are now nothing
But phantom hands
This poem is about:
Me
Guide that inspired this poem:
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: