The Hands at Play

  Its been years. Its been miles high.  Fathoms deep.  So many nights and days asleep. Walking zombies.  Fazed , slathering tip toed and in a daze. The mechanical ticks of the day.  Cold and endless barren and blazing. The hands at play.
  Times uneasy endlessness. A broken record singing its happy unison to a life just so blade less. So repetitive.  Fun at times. Yet the emotions , the passion seems desert dry.  The times when awake now just for a window is cracked. In pours volumes of fresh air to stale lungs. Memories still parched. Slightly wet. Keeping life aglow.  The mind not completely numb. Memories live on.
   Its been years since the Hands had played.  Slumbering hands.  Fogged and dew.  Love
    I still remember you.