Ms. Jii.

Hands worn out, not touch
Eyes worn out, not sight
Mind worn out, not thoughts

The lines cris-cross her palm,
Creating an illusion of wisdom,
For all they tell is a tired tale,
An old woman with a young girl’s heart.

Dust has settled over her lids,
In the lines created by incident and pain,
The burden of years has stunted her height,
But behind the lids lies the truth untold,
The fires still burning
And the dreams still craving.

Sagging body shows the trails of defeat,
Her hairless head exposes the damage,
But the veins that run across spill the truth,
Of rich red blood still rushing,
And pulse burly throbbing.

A figure so small and fragile,
Holds a stick for support,
Unstable walks and trembling hands,
Make it hard for her to show,
The steady will her mind follows,
And dreams her hands can hold.

“Don’t be fooled by my persona,
It is only a show,
The body gets weak, and the mind gets sure,
That’s called being old”

The old woman yells,
with a spark in her soul,
“The fires gone, I’m no fool,
But the warmth still lingers,
Letting my soul forever grow”