Hand Me Down

At length
forever.

A wooded ring, stretched
through, covered in lacquer.

The ridges of fingers
stain when the palm meets plank.

Yesterday’s memories fall,
get lost in the dead yellow sheen

When palm meets plank,
care of stumble, each
dream supports like
a though bubble
ridden to its natural conclusion.

Why cut the fingers,
when death will not do.

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