Each vein embossed on the back of my hand is a story
And every wrinkle in my skin spins a fetching tale,
That when listened to entertain and, dare I say, regale
With episodes of love, of adventure, and of glory.
Though rarely they are listened to, not so often heard,
They share whispers of wisdom and experience,
Like the value of persistence, of courage, of resilience,
If ever you might endeavor to hear their soft words.
Many a man boasts in the knowledge that he possesses,
“I know it like the back of my hand,” he declares,
Aloof to the fact that he is not the slightest bit aware
Of the savvy that he so fiercely, but falsely, professes.
So with warning I admonish that you study well your lines,
That you would only flourish from the passing of your time.