These are fingers exploring the sky
as if by touch
they could adventure
eternity.
Their messages to the future
released on summer breezes,
now they dry, brittle
against
the battles of autumn.
Now, prey for the spanning
of predatorial spiders,
they become
the spreaders of nets
and abettors in carnage.
Nothing remains the same
in the coming and going of days
for, touched by time,
we grow or darken
and our fingered forages
stain or colour
our eternity.
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