Losing My Grip (Poetry)

This claw that used to be a hand
once had rings and polished nails
the skin well-nourished — soft and warm
has dried and withered — flakes its scales ...

What spell has turned it into this
poor travesty so knurled and bent
the tendons slipped, the fingers curled
and dead to every impulse sent?

Every day I lose more grip
there’ll come a time this pen will fall
and I’ll be wordless — letting go
no choice when hands won’t work at all