FINGERS SCATTER...

Fingers scatter across damp panes of glass, stumbling and stretching, mixing with views and vistas of the darkness, of the unseen. If the moon casts its shadow, if the wolf steps upon the mountain, if the door is unopened, then where is your touch? The books slowly burn, they bring comfort to dead cold hands. Wings master the flames, long dark leather wings fan the flames. As the mists roll in and you slowly close your eyes - one blink can last a lifetime - as your fingers scatter across damp panes of glass, and as your breath slowly leaves your body empty, where is your touch?