Blotch

I compelled my hand-blotch to be a care
On this soul of mine. So far, my cares
Diminished, as bending was difficult for me
And old tables remained like my skin.
I wore a cardigan that day, and could it be
That my wearing of this item of clothing
Be strict and due to ancient nature,
Or the feature of an old saying
That forbade my age to enter history.
My hands tie meaning with my shirt
Or shall I say cardigan, just the sold one,
The one so forgiving of my age.
Age carries stiches,
I stretch my shirt, or cardigan,
And look at my hands.

poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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