Tangled Fingers
Tangled fingers in sunset glow,
transparent skin and one not old.
Taunting tickings cause us to slow
neither palm wanting to let go.
Time to slip in drips of death
angelic hands pull and insist;
demanding good-byes from our breath
slower we walk and resist.
A gentle press as we agree
life’s rules will wait for our command:
a moment more, still too brief,
walking, tangled --hand in hand.
No hurry to step on grey grave ground,
we smile and talk as before,
until I wake to unwelcome sounds
of quiet steps beyond life’s door.
Fingers slip from tangled weaving,
tracing life in carved stone;
like a whisper gently stealing
I notice now --I walk alone.
Copyright 2007 Spyqueen