This Dying Hand

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This dying hand
grows cold and grey and clammy,
and my eyes slowly go black—blind
to the nerveless world around me.

A hand lifts
and reaches—
I feel it lingering in my direction;
I can smell the hope
that stems from its roots.

My arms are heavy and carry lead weights,
and I cannot seem to find the
inertia
to reach back to that expectant hand.