Timely Hands - Eight Lines

Our Hands are a reflection of our lives

Prompt: A poem about hands

In the darkness of a cradle, tiny palms whisper secrets untold,
Their clenched fists clutch the first clue-a silver latch of a hidden lullaby.

Child hands, ink-stained, trace phantom maps upon a cracked attic floor,
They sift through dust, unmasking the echo of a vanished song.

Adult hands, scarred, tighten the grip on a rusted, humming key,
They turn the lock of a forgotten door where shadows barter truth.

Old hands, trembling, release the final parchment, its ink bleeding time,
And the mystery unravels, as every fingerprint sings the same silent story.

Line Count: Eight